\ 


THE  NEW  AMERICAN   DRAMA 


THE 

NEW  AMERICAN 
DRAMA 


BY 

RICHARD   BURTON 

>/ 

PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE,  UNIVERSITY  OF  MINNESOTA 
MEMBER  OF  THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 


For  this  writing  of  plays  is  a  great  matter,  forming 
as  it  does  the  minds  and  affections  of  men  in  such  sort 
that  whatsoever  they  see  done  in  show  on  the  stage, 
they  will  presently  be  doing  in  earnest  in  the  world, 
which  is  but  a  larger  stage. 

SHAW'S  Dark  Lady  of  the  Sonnets. 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  Y.    CROWELL   COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1913, 
BY  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY. 


Published  September,  1913. 


CONTENTS 

THE  WORD  BEFORE  Page  vii 

I.  THE  UNFAILING  LURE  1 

II.  THE  THEATRE  AND  THE  PEOPLE  8 

III.  THE  TENTATIVE  PERIOD  48 

IV.  TRUTH  78 
V.  TECHNIC  118 

VI.   ROMANCE  137 

VII.   POETRY  171 

VIII.   HUMOR  AND  THE  SOCIAL  NOTE  190 

IX.   FICTION  AND  THE  DRAMA  211 

X.  IDEA  IN  DRAMA  229 

XL  THE  THEATRE  AND  EDUCATION  251 

THE  WORD  AFTER  275 


S68790 


THE   WORD    BEFORE 

THIS  study  of  present  dramatic  conditions  is 
not  a  catalogue  of  plays  and  playwrights.  It 
does  not  essay  with  meticulous  detail  to  fer 
ret  out  minute  happenings  by  the  analytic 
method.  It  is,  rather,  an  attempt,  let  us 
hope  not  altogether  amiss,  to  put  before  the 
reader  in  synthetic  fashion  the  native  move 
ment  of  our  time  in  drama,  placing  empha 
sis  upon  what  seem  significant  tendencies  and 
illustrative  personalities.  The  writer  has  en 
deavored  to  draw  together  the  main  threads 
of  development,  so  that  a  notion  of  what 
was,  is  and  may  be  shall  be  gained.  It  is  a 
more  difficult  task  to  point  out  concisely  the 
essential  accomplishment,  than  it  is  to  set 
down,  with  the  zeal  of  the  grubber  for  dates, 
all  the  tiny  doings  from  Royall  Tyler  to 
Clyde  Fitch.  Literary  biology  has  its  dan 
gers;  one  of  them  is  the  misuse  of  that  mod- 

vii 


viij The  Word  Before 

ern  fetich,  the  scientific  method.  Lemaitre's 
remark  that  the  discussion  of  contemporaries 
is  not  criticism,  but  conversation,  is  an  epi 
gram  that  touches  the  truth.  Nevertheless, 
it  may  be  possible  to  be  helpful  in  a  modest 
way  even  when  one  deals  with  the  present 
and  has  current  phenomena  in  mind. 

If  this  purpose  has  been  attained  in  the 
present  volume,  in  a  way  to  arouse  interest 
and  suggest  an  intelligent  attitude,  the  writer 
will  feel  that  his  labor  has  not  been  entirely 
without  avail.  Surely,  in  a  field  so  broad 
and  until  of  late  so  little  cultivated,  there  is 
room  for  the  activities  of  many,  critics  and 
creative  workers  alike. 


THE 
NEW  AMERICAN    DRAMA 


THE  UNFAILING  LURE 

ON  a  certain  beautiful  May  morning,  the 
present  writer  entered  the  door  of  a  well- 
known  publishing  house  on  Beacon  Street, 
Boston,  upon  business  intent,  and  with  scant 
time  for  its  transaction  before  he  set  foot  the 
same  morning  on  an  eastward  bound  ocean 
steamer.  But  he  found  it  difficult,  nay,  im 
possible  to  get  attention,  since  the  whole  force 
of  the  establishment  from  office  boy  to  firm 
member  had  become  oblivious  to  indoor  du 
ties,  because  that  modern  survival  of  the 
picturesque  past,  a  circus  procession,  was 
passing  that  way.  It  seemed  the  part  both  of 
wisdom  and  pleasure  to  crane  one's  neck 


*'Fke-'Ne<w  American  Drama 

from  an  upper  window  until  the  Barnum  and 
Bailey  Mammoth  Show  had  ceased  from 
troubling. 

The  philosopher  finds  food  for  reflection 
in  the  incident,  with  its  curious,  universal 
appeal,  its  lure  unchanged  since  boyhood 
days.  The  Roman  populace  cried  for  bread 
and  circuses,  and  perhaps  bread  came  first  in 
the  classic  sentence  only  for  grammatical 
reasons;  the  populace  is  the  same  to-day,  and 
within  the  definition  of  the  word  come  all 
ages,  conditions  and  kinds  of  men.  All  the 
world  still  pricks  up  its  ears  at  the  sound  of 
the  announcing  bugle,  the  stir  of  feet  along 
the  thronged,  processional  way.  Sir  Walter 
Scott  declared  the  world  swung  forward  un 
der  the  urge  of  two  mighty  passions:  hunger 
and  love.  It  might  have  been  well  to  add  a 
third:  the  imperious  demand  for  poetry,  that 
bright,  elusive,  faraway  and  hence  desirable 
thing  that  takes  us  out  of  ourselves,  coming 
like  a  beautiful  bird  of  Paradise  to  make  sud 
denly  colorful  the  gray  humdrum  of  our  days. 
It  is,  in  a  word,  Romance;  the  blue  flower  of 


The  Unfailing  Lure 


the  Germans,  the  blue  bird  of  Maeterlinck, 
Stevenson's  nightingale  with  his  "time-de 
vouring  note." 

And  that  is  what  the  circus  gives  us  all. 
We  see  it  through  the  wonder  eyes  of  youth 
because  we  are  all  young  in  the  mood  it 
evokes.  Sated  of  life's  feast  though  we  may 
be,  something  of  the  old  thrill  is  ours  as 
its  face,  fresh,  albeit  familiar,  confronts  us; 
partly  reminiscential  perhaps  but  elemental, 
too,  going  deep  down  to  the  psychic  depths 
where  the  imperishable  boy  survives,  to  meet 
us  more  than  half  way  when  the  band  be 
gins  to  play. 

See  how  those  stately  knights  lead  the  glit 
tering  cavalcade!  It  is  a  touch  out  of  Kenil- 
worth,  and  the  urchin  by  the  curb  side  for 
gets  for  a  great  moment  to  suck  his  candy 
ball,  tranced  in  present  joy,  elate  at  the  mile- 
long  vista  of  his  imagination,  at  his  heart  a 
wild  hope  fluttering  of  a  seat  at  the  after 
noon  performance, — with  three  rings,  mark 
you,  three  rings  active  at  once  and  each 
better  than  the  other! 


The  New  American  Drama 


Now  follow  the  cages,  hooded,  bodefully 
suggestive  of  the  great  beasts  within,  whose 
sullen  growls  breed  awe  even  in  the  adult 
breast;  with  an  amazing  central  van  open 
to  human  gaze,  that  one  may  see  the  lion 
tamer  sitting  Alexander-like  among  his  sav 
age  minions;  the  poetry  of  the  jungle  linked 
with  the  poetry  of  man's  intellectual  su 
premacy  over  the  animal  kingdom.  Next, 
perchance,  a  group  of  Japanese  jugglers,  high 
atop  a  glorious  structure,  knife-tossing,  lithe, 
another  exotic  note  that  makes  Main  Street 
seem  terribly  drab  and  commonplace. 

And  then,  elephants  with  monkeys  on  their 
backs,  their  facile  trunks  saluting  the  crowd; 
or  a  drove  of  camels,  those  sad,  faithful 
trudgers  of  the  desert,  with  their  ambulatory 
undulations,  followed  hard  on  by  a  little 
gilded  chariot  wherein  two  painted  clowns 
dispense  grimaces  and  ancient  jests  to  the 
huge  satisfaction  of  a  never-lacking  queue 
of  perspiring  lads  who,  loth  to  run  twenty 
yards  of  an  errand  for  forgotten  mothers, 
will  yet  cover  unconscious  miles  to  keep  up 


The  Unfailing  Lure 


with  those  same  autocrats  of  democratic 
fun. 

The  horses,  too,  how  noble  they  are,  how 
lovely  their  caparisons,  how  deftly  controlled 
by  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  astride  their 
sleek  backs,  who  look  like  creatures  out  of 
a  medieval  tale!  Let  your  gaze  go  down 
the  vista  and  rest  on  yonder  towering  car, 
built  up  in  tiers  of  splendor,  shining  afar 
in  the  sun;  and  see  that  radiant  goddess — 
there  is  no  meaner  word — who  from  her 
topply  throne  waves  an  enchanted  sceptre 
and  smiles  a  smile"  that  reveals  not  the  fact 
that  she  has  arisen  at  four  of  the  clock  that 
very  morning  and  lacks  substantial  break 
fast  withal  to  sustain  her  godship. 

And  the  superbly  uniformed  bands,  the 
lovely  Lilliputian  ponies,  the  trained  dogs 
with  their  more  than  human  sagacity,  the 
acrobats  in  action,  the  minstrel  band  in  half 
circle,  the  black  faces  so  strikingly  set  forth 
from  a  background  of  white  and  gold;  and 
then  more  vans,  until  it  seems  as  though 
the  line  would  never  reach  the  climax  of 


The  New  American  Drama 


the  inevitable  Calliope,  fairly  shouting  at 
us  its  staccato  melody.  What  marvel  that 
business  suspends,  be  the  place  large  or 
small,  and  even  gray  beards  throw  caution 
to  the  winds  and  nodding  judicious  yet  half- 
turned  heads,  declare  that  it  is  the  best 
parade  that  ever  came  to  town! 

Yes,  the  appeal  is  perennial,  neither  time, 
culture  nor  repetition  can  quite  stale  its  in 
finite  zest  and  variety. 

And  the  call  of  the  circus  is  at  bottom 
the  call  of  the  theatre;  an  institution  that  has 
always  been  and  always  will  be  cherished  by 
the  masses  of  mankind,  let  wiseacres  prate  as 
they  may.  Stripped  of  its  higher  significance, 
its  interpretation  of  life,  historic  or  present, 
beneath  its  schools  and  shibboleths,  its  tri 
umphs,  fads  and  fashions,  is  the  "show,"  and 
the  human  hunger  for  it.  Therefore,  to  seek 
to  kill  such  an  amusement,  and  stifle  the  in 
stitution  that  ministers  to  such  an  instinct,  is 
the  classic  attempt  to  reverse  the  waters  of 
the  sea,  in  modern  repetition.  You  may 
close  the  door  of  the  playhouse  to  your  child 


The  Unfailing  Lure 


by  injunction,  be  sure  he  will  break  your 
command,  or  else  turn  to  some  other  equiva 
lent  in  the  eternal  quest  for  Romance. 
Hence  is  it  the  part  of  wisdom  to  recognize 
the  need,  the  craving,  and  strive  by  a  proper 
control  and  direction  of  the  theatre  to  give 
it  food;  making  the  playhouse  yield  man 
what  is  for  his  welfare,  and  frankly  realiz 
ing  its  unique  power  to  perform  this  service 
under  the  guise  of  pleasure. 


II 

THE  THEATRE  AND  THE  PEOPLE 

IT  is  an  open  secret  that  the  theatre  is  uni 
versally  fascinating.  Its  power  lies  in  the 
fact  that  it  is  a  place  where  you  may  hear 
a  story  told  in  terms  of  emotion  as  you  sit 
with  others  whose  society  enforces  your  pri 
vate  feeling  with  overtones  of  their  own. 
And  the  story  comes  radiating  over  the  foot 
lights,  too,  by  no  indirection  of  the  printed 
page,  but  communicated  by  the  looks,  actions 
and  words  of  the  men  and  women  whose 
fates  enthrall  the  mind,  even  as  their  motions 
enthrall  the  eye.  We  not  only  see  them  as 
we  sit  like  the  gods  apart,  but  we  hear  them 
as  well. 

When  Enoch  Arden  returned  to  his  native 
burg,  he  w^as^told  that  Annie,  his  wife,  be 
lieving  him  dead,  had  married  his  friend, 
Philip;  that  children,  hers,  but  not  his, 

8 


The  Theatre  and  the  People  9 

played  at  her  knee.  But  when  in  the  night, 
from  the  garden  outside  the  house,  he  sees 
her  at  her  own  hearth,  circled  by  her  dear 
ones,  then — 

**  because  things  seen  are  mightier  than  things  heard," 

he  steals  away  and  falls  in  his  agony  to 
mother  earth  to  wrestle  with  mighty  sorrow. 
The  potent  influence  of  the  theatre  is  ad 
mirably  summed  up  in  that  one  memorable 
line. 

The  drama  is  democratic,  for  one  thing, 
because  it  is  not  necessarily  literature  at  all; 
millions  have  enjoyed  it  who  can  neither 
read  nor  write;  an  effective  story  about  life 
can  be  told  without  the  use  of  a  single  word, 
as  in  pantomime.  Yet  the  play  can  rise  to 
the  heights  of  imaginative  expression,  and 
becomes  the  greatest  as  well  as  the  most 
difficult  of  literary  forms;  and  so  we  get 
Sophocles,  Shakspere,  Moliere,  Calderon, 
Ibsen. 

The  theatre  is  an  amusement;  herein  lies 
its  peril  and  its  high  opportunity.  Its  peril, 


IO  The  New  American  Drama 

because  we  of  Puritan  descent,  inheriting  an 
unfair  and  unfortunate  prejudice  against  it, 
are  in  danger  of  making  the  drama  low,  by 
thinking  it  is  so ;  give  a  dog  a  bad  name,  says 
the  aphorism.  We  forget  that  bit  of  Latin 
wisdom:  the  abuse  of  a  thing  is  nothing 
against  the  thing. 

But,  as  I  said,  its  opportunity,  too:  for  an 
amusement  like  the  playhouse,  with  its  splen 
didly  general  appeal,  can  influence  the  world 
more  vitally  for  the  very  reason  that  it  is 
regarded  as  a  pleasure. 

Play  reveals  the  nature  of  a  person  or  peo 
ple  as  even  work  does  not;  it  catches  hu 
manity  off-guard,  so  to  say,  in  a  child-like 
mood;  hence  the  historic  saying:  "Let  me 
make  the  songs  of  the  people.  I  care  not 
who  makes  its  laws."  Yes,  in  ludo  veritas, 
is  truer  than  in  vino  veritas,  it  cuts  deeper 
into  the  heart  of  man.  When  we  say  a 
piece  of  work  was  done  sportively,  in  a  spirit 
of  play,  we  mean  it  was  more  truly  self- 
expressive.  It  is  this  sense  of  boy-like  crea 
tive  activity  which  is  in  the  mind  of  the 


The  Theatre  and  the  People  n 

writer  of   Proverbs,   when  he   imagines   the 
spirit  of  Wisdom  co-operating  with  God: 

"  When  He  marked  out  the  foundation  of  the  earth, 
Then  I  was  by  Him 
As  a  master  workman, 
And  I  was  daily  His  delight, 
Sporting  always  before  Him, 
Sporting  in  His  habitable  earthj 
And  my  delight  was  with  the  sons  of  men." 

The  theatre  roots  in  this  deep  craving  for 
play,  for  sport,  for  joy;  play  is  not  a  luxury, 
but  a  necessity.  And  another  root,  of  kin  to 
this,  is  the  mimetic  instinct.  Every  child,  be 
fore  it  reaches  the  stage  of  self-consciousness, 
is  the  race  writ  small  in  the  desire  to  act, 
to  represent  life  in  terms  of  the  imagination; 
the  child  is  but  a  little  mime,  a  mummer 
masking  by  day  and  night;  in  this  sense,  we 
are  all  suppressed  actors: 

"  And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players." 

The  theatre,  once  more,  has  its  root  in  the 
religious  instinct;  the  ancient  Indian  myth 
plays,  the  Greek  altar  of  Dionysus,  the 
European  medieval  cathedral — everywhere 
the  history  of  the  drama  illustrates  it.  Wor- 


12  The  New  American  Drama 

ship  allies  itself  with  action,  with  concrete 
show  and  picture,  in  order  to  make  the  teach 
ing  more  effective,  to  carry  it  home  to  the 
populace.  We  have  been  reminded  in  recent 
years  of  this  elder  union  of  religion  and 
the  stage  by  such  plays  as  "Everyman,"  "The 
Servant  in  the  House"  and  "The  Passing  of 
the  Third  Floor  Back." 

The  church  has  always  been  aware  that 
(a  stage  play  is  regarded  by  an  audience  as 
a  piece  of  life  and  exercises  a  corresponding 
power;)  it  would  not  have  tolerated  the  silly 
notion  that  a  drama  bears  no  relation  to  life 
and  therefore  is  relieved  from  moral  re 
sponsibility;  the  astute  church  knew  better; 
indeed,  all  private  experience  gives  the  idea 
the  lie.  The  veteran  Henry  Irving,  when 
past  sixty,  was  representing  Tennyson's  play, 
"Becket,"  and  an  admirer  one  night,  think 
ing  to  compliment  him,  remarked  that  the 
actor  had  done  much  for  the  play.  Where 
upon  Irving  answered:  "It  is  nothing  com 
pared  with  what  it  has  done  for  me;  it  has 
changed  my  whole  view  of  life." 


The  Theatre  and  the  People  13 

If  a  noble  play  can  effect  such  a  result  in 
the  case  of  the  player  himself,  after  a  life 
time  of  professional  simulation,  what  can  it 
not  do  with  that  impressionable  creature,  the 
average  playgoer? 

Here,  then,  is  the  most  democratic  of  all 
story-telling,  corresponding  to  a  deep,  dra 
matic  instinct,  with  rootages  in  play,  in  re 
ligion,  in  the  universal  love  of  life,  influenc 
ing  untold  thousands  daily,  millions  of  hu 
man  beings  a  year;  and  therefore  its  use  or 
abuse  offering  a  vital,  practical,  educational 
problem  in  the  United  States. 

What  is  being  done?  Do  we  realize  what 
the  playhouse  is,  and  are  we  handling  it  to 
show  such  realization?  Have  we  a  govern 
ment  officer,  national,  municipal  or  state,  to 
supervise  the  theatre?  No,  you  reply,  that 
were  grotesque.  But  we  have  a  conservator 
of  our  forests;  are  the  souls  of  the  people 
not  worth  as  much  as  sticks  and  stones?  Is 
there  not  here  a  sacrifice  to  the  great  God 
Mammon?  Moreover,  the  director  of  the 
Fran9aise  in  Paris  is  an  officer  of  the  state; 


14  The  New  American  Drama 

why  then  is  it  Utopian  to  suggest  a  like 
functionary  as  possible  in  our  own  land, 
together  with  the  institution  of  which  he  is 
the  head?  Looking  aside  from  the  nation 
itself,  has  any  state  or  city  awakened  to  a 
sense  of  responsibility  in  this  matter?  Hardly 
one  state  or  city,  although  here  and  there 
some  person  has  left  his  town  money  for  the 
municipal  playhouse;  or  aggregations  of  in 
dividuals  have  given  sums  for  the  main 
tenance  of  a  theatre,  as  in  the  case  of  the  New 
Theatre  experiment  in  Chicago  a  few  years 
ago  and  the  later  and  better  known  New 
Theatre  of  recent  memory  in  New  York 
City,  and  the  interesting  experiment  of  the 
Chicago  Theatre  Society;  or  private  amateur 
experiments  of  the  Little  Theatre  sort  point 
the  way.  In  Red  Wing,  Minnesota,  Sagi- 
naw,  Michigan,  Pittsfield  and  Northampton, 
Massachusetts,  and  Denver,  Colorado,  there 
are  theatres  which  are  in  some  sense  civic 
or  quasi  civic;  either  conducted  by  represen 
tatives  of  the  people  with  the  welfare  of  the 
community  in  mind,  or  made  possible  by 


The  Theatre  and  the  People  \$ 

private  or  co-operative  gifts  having  com 
munity  interest  in  mind,  and  other  cities  are 
discussing  the  problem  with  an  evident  sense 
of  its  importance  and  practical  bearing.  So 
long  as  our  municipal  machinery  is  of  the 
present  dubious  personnel  (the  honorable 
exceptions  are  known  of  men),  it  may  not 
be  well  to  jeopardize  the  interests  of  the 
playhouse  by  involving  it  in  local  politics. 
In  New  Zealand,  several  cities  conduct 
their  own  playhouses  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
make  the  books  balance  for  the  year.  And 
looking  to  home,  it  is  worth  noting  that  two 
western  states,  Iowa  and  Wisconsin,  have  in 
troduced  bills  in  their  respective  legislatures 
requesting  the  municipal  encouragement  and 
control  of  play  houses.  A  small  town  in  the 
latter  state,  Richland  Centre,  having  erected 
a  structure  for  the  combined  purpose  of 
city  hall,  club  house  and  auditorium,  and 
finding  itself  unable  by  law  to  maintain  such 
a  place  of  public  recreation,  the  agitation 
of  the  matter  by  the  citizens  led  to  the  in 
troducing  of  the  bill.  In  Iowa,  at  this  writ- 


1 6  The  New  American  Drama 

ing,  a  bill  has  passed  the  House  empower 
ing  cities  to  own  and  operate  municipal  the 
atres  if  the  people  demand  it  at  a  general 
election.  Representative  Charles  W.  Miller, 
who  is  sponsor  for  the  bill,  declares:  "I 
have  every  confidence  that  the  Municipal 
Theatre  is  a  thing  of  the  near  future,  whether 
my  measure  is  adopted  at  this  session  or  not5" 
Evidently,  the  purely  academic  stage  of  this 
question  is  passed. 

These  sporadic  object  lessons  establish 
hope  for  the  future  and  sane,  broad  thinking 
has  only  just  begun  in  this  important  social 
consideration.  The  movement  is  perceptibly 
under  way;  here  and  there  a  prophetic  voice 
is  heard;  here  and  there  a  significant  step  is 
taken.  In  her  recent  noble  book,  "The  Spirit 
of  Youth  and  the  City's  Streets,"  Jane 
Addams  writes  these  suggestive  words: 

"The  classical  city  provided  for  play  with 
careful  solicitude,  building  the  theatre  as 
they  built  the  market-place  and  the  temple, 
and  it  came  to  anticipate  the  highest  utter 
ances  of  the  poet  at  those  moments  when  the 


The  Theatre  and  the  People  IJ 

sense  of  pleasure  released  the  national  life. 
In  the  medieval  city,  the  knights  held  their 
tourneys,  the  guilds  their  pageants,  the  peo 
ple  their  dances,  and  the  church  made  festival 
for  its  most  cherished  saints  with  gay  street 
processions.  Only  in  the  modern  industrial 
city  have  men  concluded  that  it  is  no  longer 
necessary  for  the  municipality  to  provide  for 
the  insatiable  desire  for  play." 

Wise  words,  these,  though  a  trifle  ahead 
of  the  time;  yet  coming  from  a  leader  whom 
no  one  accuses  of  being  doctrinaire,  after 
her  quarter  century  of  superb  practical  social 
service.  Her  thought  is  very  much  what 
Matthew  Arnold  had  in  mind  when  he  spoke 
those  ringing  words:  "The  theatre  is  ir 
resistible;  organize  the  theatre!" 

We  have  but  just  begun,  I  say,  but  there 
are  encouraging  signs  all  about;  surely,  the 
waters  are  stirring  at  the  breath  of  the  Time 
spirit.  Other  things  indicative  of  a  change 
to  a  more  enlightened  outlook  may  be  here 
set  down. 

Recall  the  worthy  New  Theatre  attempt, 


1 8  The  New  American  Drama 

already  mentioned,  in  Chicago,  and  connect 
with  it  the  larger  attempt  in  New  York, 
which,  whatever  its  shortcomings,  and  in 
spite  of  its  short  existence,  did  able  and  in 
teresting  work  and  sowed  seed  for  the  future. 
Also  should  be  mentioned  Donald  Robert 
son's  valiant  effort  for  four  years  in  Chi 
cago,  in  which  he  received  the  friendly  aid 
of  the  Art  Institute,  a  quasi-civic  indorse 
ment,  and  made  himself  the  logical  director 
of  the  Theatre  Society  venture  in  that  city 
which  followed.  Have  in  mind,  too,  the 
Children's  Theatre  in  New  York,  now  suc 
cessfully  revived,  in  which  the  late  Mark 
Twain  was  so  beneficially  active.  Recall 
what  the  People's  Union  accomplished  in  the 
same  city  through  a  specially  appointed  com 
mittee  to  furnish  wise  direction  to  playgoers 
and  a  reduced  price  for  plays  worth  seeing. 
Realize  also  the  wonderful  work  done  for 
twenty  years  by  Hull  House  in  Chicago,  to 
make  the  drama  irradiate  a  squalid  quarter 
and  be  a  civilizing  bond  between  a  dozen 
nations — ZangwilPs  crucible  for  the  melting 


The  Theatre  and  the  People  19 

of  race  antagonisms.  Notice  that  even  the 
much  maligned  Frohman  ventured  on  a 
Repertory  Theatre  in  London  a  few  years 
ago,  with  dubious  financial  results,  due  to 
wrong  handling,  but  at  the  least  testifying  to 
a  willingness  on  the  part  of  a  powerful,  prac 
tical  manager  to  experiment  with  the  so- 
called  higher  drama.  And  the  maintenance 
of  the  Repertory  theatres  in  Manchester, 
Glasgow,  and  Liverpool,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  more  famous  Abbey  Theatre  movement 
in  Dublin,  are  further  signs  of  the  time.  The 
proposed  National  Theatre  in  London,  a 
memorial  of  Shakspere's  four  hundredth  an 
niversary  in  1916,  for  which  substantial  sub 
scriptions  have  already  been  made  and  which 
Parliament  is  discussing,  has  also  its  signifi 
cance  in  the  movement.  Nor  should  the 
work  of  the  Drama  League  of  America, 
which,  in  its  brief  life  of  three  years,  has 
vitally  interested  many  thousands  of  mem 
bers  in  active  service  all  over  the  land,  estab 
lished  strong  branches  in  twenty-four  lead 
ing  cities,  started  with  success  an  educational 


The  New  American  Drama 


campaign,  influenced  the  patronage  of  plays 
in  both  larger  cities  and  smaller  towns  by  the 
bulletin  method,  and  so  convinced  theatre 
managers  of  its  helpful  influence  as  to  gain 
their  good  will  and  financial  support,  be 
overlooked  in  the  survey.  The  League  does 
sensible  constructive  work,  because  it  acts 
upon  the  sane  assumption  that  to  patronize 
a  good  play  is  to  kill,  or  at  least  injure,  a 
bad  one;  and  upon  the  sensible  belief  that 
almost  anything  can  be  accomplished  by  or 
ganization  and  wide  co-operation,  a  lesson 
long  since  taught  us  by  the  leaders  of  capital 
and  labor.  The  getting  together  of  all  in 
terested  in  a  better  playhouse  for  the  people 
will  surely  produce  analogous  results.  The 
establishment  by  Mr.  Ames  of  The  Little 
Theatre,  in  New  York  City,  with  the  oppor 
tunity  offered  to  witness  plays  which  make 
the  more  intimate  appeal  and  are  often  in 
one-act  form,  and  the  later  Little  Theatres 
in  Philadelphia  and  Chicago,  animated  by 
the  same  general  aims,  together  with  the  Toy 
Theatre  of  Boston,  conducted  by  amateurs, 


The  Theatre  and  the  People  21 

are  all  phases  of  the  desire  to  escape  from 
the  dead  level  of  the  purely  commercial  the 
atre  conductment. 

So  rapidly  are  organizations  of  various 
kinds  forming,  all  actuated  by  the  sincere  de 
sire  to  bring  about  better  results  in  the  the 
atre,  that  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  chronicle 
them.  The  National  Federation  of  Theatre 
Clubs,  the  Independent  Drama  League  in 
New  York,  the  prospective  Woman's  Theatre, 
the  French  Theatre,  these  and  other  like  ac 
tivities,  whether  mere  plans  on  paper  or 
really  in  operation,  are  but  phases  of  the  one 
intention.  In  fact,  in  every  aspect  of  theatre 
theory  and  practice,  interesting  experimenta 
tion  is  now  under  way. 

Some  time  ago  the  Civic  Club  of  Philadel 
phia,  representing  the  best  in  that  community, 
went  on  record,  in  Club  action,  that  they 
would  provide  their  members  with  informa 
tion  in  advance  concerning  coming  vicious 
entertainments,  that  they  might  be  saved  the 
unpleasantness  of  ascertaining  the  fact  by  at 
tendance;  the  same  service  in  principle  now 


22  The  New  American  Drama 

being  performed  by  the  Drama  League. 
Other  straws,  showing  which  way  the  wind 
blows,  may  be  noted  in  the  action  of  the  civic 
authorities  both  of  New  York  and  Chicago,  in 
stopping  the  further  performance  of  certain 
immoral  dramas,  flaunting  their  viciousness  at 
leading  theatres,  and  the  action  of  the  Catho 
lic  Church  in  the  matter  of  plays  deemed  in 
jurious  to  the  life  of  their  people.  I  may  be 
permitted  to  add,  as  one  engaged  in  teaching 
in  a  large  state  University,  that  many  high 
school  folk  have  asked  me  for  advice  and 
direction  in  the  matter  of  instruction  in  the 
drama  in  those  typical  public  institutions.  A 
widespread  feeling  has  grown  up  that  here 
is  a  weapon  in  the  educational  arsenal,  as  yet 
but  little  used.  The  public  schools  in  Ger 
many  recognized  this  years  ago  and  acted 
upon  it.  Some  further  consideration  of  the 
matter  in  its  relation  to  school  and  college 
will  be  found  in  the  chapter  entitled  "The 
Theatre  and  Education." 

The    particular    significance    in    all    these 
scattered    manifestations,   not   without    their 


The   Theatre  and  the  People  23 

impressiveness  when  they  are  massed — is  not 
that  the  attempts  succeed  or  fail,  but  rather 
that  such  attempts  and  efforts  are  being  put 
forth  at  all.  To  them  may  be  also  added  the 
obvious  new  interest  in  the  literature  of  the 
drama  and  the  theatre,  its  home;  an  interest 
seen  in  the  increasing  publication  of  current 
plays  of  the  better  sort,  native  and  foreign; 
the  space  given  to  the  subject  in  our  best 
periodicals;  and  the  fact  that  schools  and  col 
leges  everywhere  are  training  young  audi 
ences  to  appreciate  fine  plays  by  presenting 
them  constantly  in  their  dramatic  clubs,  re 
garding  the  work  as  a  serious,  integral  part 
of  the  English  culture.  In  this  connection 
may  be  mentioned  for  its  usefulness,  the 
Drama  League's  pamphlet,  "A  Selective  List 
of  Books  About  the  Theatre  and  of  Pub 
lished  Plays  in  English,"  which  is  quite  the 
best  and  most  complete  thing  of  the  kind  in 
the  tongue. 

Meanwhile,  what  are  the  drawbacks,  the 
defects?  They  exist,  and  it  is  no  part  of  my 
purpose  to  ignore  them.  Some  persons,  for- 


24  The  New  American  Drama 

sooth,  are  so  discouraged  by  their  presence, 
that  they  take  refuge  in  the  past  and  mourn 
fully  wail  over  this  institution  called  the 
playhouse;  it  is,  to  their  mind,  given  over  to 
evil,  and  it  were  useless  to  strive  for  its  uplift. 
The  striking  betterment  in  many  ways  to  be 
descried,  makes  this  ostrich-like  burying  of 
one's  head  in  the  sand  hardly  a  praiseworthy 
attitude.  But  let  the  difficulties  be  honestly 
confessed,  since  it  is  the  first  step  toward 
overcoming  them.  Half  a  dozen  may  here 
be  indicated. 

To  begin  with,  and  very  operative  for 
harm,  is  the  inherited  prejudice  which  re 
gards  the  theatre  as  a  kind  of  vulgar,  low 
indulgence,  something  to  be  tolerated,  at  the 
best,  and  on  the  whole  an  example  of  the 
traditional  belief: 

In  Adam's  fall, 
We  sinned  all. 

There  is  an  historical  reason  why  this  un 
enlightened  conception  of  the  playhouse 
should  have  existed  so  long  in  this  country 
and  persisted  even  to  our  own  day — although 


The   Theatre  and  the  People  2$ 

it  is  now  fast  giving  way  to  a  more  rational 
understanding  of  an  institution  which  in 
other  lands  has  always  been  regarded  as  one 
of  the  arts  deserving  state  support. 

Our  ancestors  of  Puritan  stock,  before  they 
left  England,  closed  all  the  public  theatres 
for  nearly  twenty  years  and  ranked  this 
pleasure  on  a  par  with  bear-baiting  and 
tavern  debauchery.  No  wonder  that  such  a 
view,  brought  to  this  land,  became  a  thought, 
wellnigh  an  instinct,  in  time,  flowering  full 
bloom  in  declarations  still  heard,  sometimes 
from  laymen,  sometimes,  alas,  from  clergy 
men,  that  the  theatre  is  Satan's  work,  to  be 
abhorred  by  all  decent  persons.  Of  course, 
the  sweeping  condemnations  simply  mean,  as 
a  rule,  that  those  who  make  them  are  hostile 
to  an  Anna  Held  comedy,  or  a  vulgar  vaude 
ville  turn  or  a  "Merry  Widow"  opera;  trie 
abuse  of  the  playhouse,  in  other  words,  is 
confused  with  its  proper  use,  and  so  we  get 
a  sad  example  of  illogic.  The  heart  of  the 
person  making  such  an  argument  is  very 
often  sound;  but  his  thinking  apparatus  is 


26  The  New  American  Drama 

woefully  out  of  repair.  A  proper  treatment 
for  such  a  patient  is  the  homeopathic  admin 
istration  of  a  bolus  compounded  of  equal 
parts  of  sweetness  and  light. 

Surely,  this  is  no  attack  on  the  Puritan, 
whose  magnificent  qualities  some  of  us  feel 
to  be  the  finest  fraction  of  our  endowment; 
we  can  all  thrill  sympathetically  when  a 
George  William  Curtis,  in  terms  of  resonant 
eloquence,  hymns  their  contribution  to  Amer 
ican  civilization.  But  all  the  same,  it  is  the 
plain  truth  that  in  their  attitude  toward  the 
theatre  in  the  past,  and  so  far  as  it  is  found 
in  the  present,  they  illustrate  the  defect  of 
their  quality.  It  is  told  of  Fitz  James 
Stephen,  product  of  Calvinistic  Evangelican- 
ism,  that  he  "once  smoked  a  cigar,  but  found 
it  so  delicious  that  he  never  smoked  again." 
The  Puritan  is  only  slowly  learning,  even 
to-day,  that  joy  as  joy  need  not  be  of  necessity 
evil,  that  the  right  kind  of  joy,  in  truth,  as 
Stevenson  happily  tells  us,  may  be  a  religious 
act. 

Another   misconception   which    hurts    the 


The  Theatre  and  the  People          27 

true  interests  of  the  theatre,  is  that  embodied 
in  the  phrase,  irritatingly  persistent  in  recur 
rence:  Give  the  people  'what  they  want.  In 
other  words,  since  it  is  of  the  very  nature  of 
the  playhouse  to  represent  Life — Life  in  no 
restricted  sense,  but  all  of  it,  the  high  and 
the  low,  the  foul  and  the  fair;  and  since,  more 
over,  many  in  an  audience  wish  to  see  depict 
ed  the  coarse,  the  brutal,  the  low  and  the 
vile,  they  should  be  allowed  to  have  it.  They 
have  just  as  good  a  right,  so  runs  the  familiar 
argument,  as  those  who  desire  only  to  witness 
the  aspects  of  human  nature  which  are  up 
lifting  and  pure.  The  theatre  is  a  democratic 
place,  and  the  drama  the  theatregoers  get  will 
be  what  they  call  for  by  majority  vote;  and 
thus  is  the  business  man  in  the  box  office 
justified.  He  proposes  to  give  his  audiences 
what  they  want,  neither  more  nor  less;  if  they 
show  by  their  attendance  that  they  want  plays 
that  are  high,  thoughtful,  sweet  and  whole 
some,  lo!  they  shall  have  them;  if  the  other 
kind,  then  shall  they  have  those  as  well,  for 
money  talks,  the  box  office  is  the  ganglionic 


28  The  New  American  Drama 

centre  of  theatrical  life,  and  to  conduct  a  the 
atre  is  not  to  attempt  to  elevate  the  masses 
(or  classes),  but  one  way  of  making  a  liv 
ing — or  perhaps,  more  often,  one  way  of 
bankruptcy.  Such  is  the  easy  disposition  of 
the  matter  heard  every  day  and  falling  with 
maddening  repetition  upon  our  ears. 

In  reply  to  it,  one  or  two  plain  truths  may 
be  put  forward.  As  for  the  business  man 
in  the  theatre,  it  may  at  once  be  granted  that 
judged  simply  as  a  business  man,  it  is  quite 
unfair  to  hold  him  up  to  the  principles  of  a 
reformer.  If  he  honestly  declare  himself 
to  be  a  business  man,  make  no  pretense,  obey 
the  law  of  the  land,  conducting  his  business 
upon  accepted  rules,  he  certainly  should  be 
estimated  in  the  light  of  that  avowed  inten 
tion.  He  has  a  right  to  ask  for  the  same 
consideration  accorded  to  other  business  men; 
except  that  he  should  remind  himself  that 
he  differs  from  the  seller  of  shoes  or  of 
groceries  in  one  important  respect;  he  deals 
in  certain  commodities  called  thought  and 
feeling,  and  therefore  his  business  affects 


The  Theatre  and  the  People  29 

the  public  morals,  which  neither  shoes  nor 
butter  nor  eggs  do.  This  should,  and  will, 
give  the  best  sort  of  theatre  manager  a  sense 
of  moral  obligation  to  his  patrons.  We  must 
be  careful  to  be  fair  to  the  manager  in  this 
respect,  consider  his  position,  credit  him  with 
what  good  he  achieves,  and  in  general  strive 
to  do  him  justice;  for  sometimes  the  zealots 
of  the  opposite  camp  abuse  him  far  beyond 
his  deserts. 

But  the  fundamental  fallacy  in  this  busi 
ness  view  of  the  theatre  lies  in  the  assumption 
that  it  is  the  only  one,  that  it  may  not  be 
legitimate  and  yet  leave  room,  nay,  establish 
a  crying  need  for,  another  view  and  a  pref 
erable  method.  Let  the  business  man  give 
the  people  what  they  want,  if  you  will;  but 
let  the  enlightened  part  of  every  community 
teach  the  people  to  want  what  they  should 
have,  and  hence  to  have  what  they  ought  to 
want.  Do  this,  and  civilization  advances, 
do  it  not  and  progress  perishes  from  the  face 
of  human  society.  To  realize  it,  we  have 
only  to  look  around  and  observe  the  parallels. 


30  The  New  American  Drama 

Everywhere  we  behold  public  libraries;  do 
we  give  the  people  what  they  want  in  them? 
Certainly  not.  If  we  did,  there  would  be 
less  Shakspere  and  more  Laura  Jean  Libbey. 
No,  the  enlightened  persons  having  charge 
of  an  institution  which,  although  a  creation 
of  the  people,  is  conceded  to  be  educational 
in  intent,  continually  strive  to  improve  the 
reading  taste  of  the  patrons  by  all  manner 
of  devices;  they  refuse  to  buy  trash,  they 
frown  upon  filth,  they  exercise  a  kind  of 
benevolent  tyranny  with  regard  both  to  the 
inclusion  and  exclusion  of  books.  The  li 
brary,  one  of  the  denotements  of  our  civiliza 
tion  of  which  we  are  justly  proud,  is  con 
ducted  upon  a  principle  squarely  opposed 
to  the  idea  of  following  the  people  rather 
than  guiding  them. 

Or  take  the  local  orchestra,  which  so  many 
of  our  larger  American  cities  are  happily 
developing;  and  observe  the  same  method 
and  principle  at  work.  First,  a  guarantee 
through  the  generosity  of  private  citizens; 
then,  gradually  increasing  public  patronage, 


The  Theatre  and  the  People         31 

and  programs  made  up  tactfully  of  selections 
always  averaging  better  than  would  be  de 
manded  if  the  thing  were  submitted  to  pop 
ular  vote.  And  the  result,  some  grumbling 
here  and  there,  but  a  steady  improvement  of 
the  musical  taste  of  the  community,  programs 
better  and  better,  a  genuine  development  of 
music  standards.  Finally  great  municipal 
pride  in  the  Symphony  orchestra,  criticism 
drowned  in  a  chorus  of  praise.  And  yet  that 
community  has  craftfully  been  coerced  into 
accepting  what  at  first  was  too  good  for  its 
own  desires.  One  can  have  a  sturdy  faith 
in  the  People  (capitalized)  without  indulg 
ing  in  a  false  idealization  of  their  average 
standards  in  matters  of  art.  The  People, 
meaning  thereby  not  a  unit,  but  a  vast  hetero 
geneous  mass  made  up  of  all  manner  of  tastes 
and  appetites  and  degrees  of  development, 
have  demanded  things  since  the  beginning  of 
years  that,  if  granted,  would  have  led  to 
the  bottomless  pit;  they  need  to  be  protected 
against  themselves  by  those  who  think  and 
know.  Otherwise,  Liberty,  so  called,  be- 


32  The  New  American  Drama 

comes  license,  and  personal  freedom  the  right 
to  ruin  one's  self. 

These  illustrations  may  suffice.  To  defend 
the  give-the-people-what-they-want  theory 
of  the  theatre,  is  to  find  one's  self  upon  the 
horns  of  a  dilemma;  either  one  must  declare 
that  the  method  used  with  the  library  is  un- 
American,  undemocratic  and  unsuccessful  or 
else  that  it  is  not  a  proper  method  to  apply 
to  the  playhouse  because  the  latter,  unlike 
the  library,  is  not  educational.  Few  to-day 
would  be  so  rash  as  to  commit  themselves  to 
either  statement.  On  the  contrary,  intelli 
gent  thought  is  more  and  more  likely  to  agree 
that  such  an  antiquated,  puerile  view  of  the 
theatre  is  not  in  accord  with  the  best  belief 
and  practice  of  the  present  time,  look  where 
we  may  for  parallels.  To  Percy  Mackaye's 
motto,  "imagination  in  recreation,"  might  be 
added :  self-respect  in  amusement. 

A  third  drawback  to  the  welfare  of  the 
theatre  is  the  lack  of  a  sense  of  duty  in  the 
premises  on  the  part  of  the  very  class  which 
we  look  to  for  help  in  all  matters  of  improve- 


The  Theatre  and  the  People  33 

ment  and  reform;  the  class  whose  attitude, 
generally  speaking,  is  right  toward  other  re 
forms.  The  explanation  is  easily  to  be  found 
in  the  absence  of  any  tradition  of  duty  touch 
ing  the  playhouse,  the  fact  that  the  very  idea 
that  it  can  be  educational  in  its  aim  and  in 
fluence  is  of  recent  appearance.  That  this 
sense  of  obligation  will  now  be  fast  devel 
oped  cannot  be  doubted;  there  are  signs  and 
to  spare — some  of  them  already  enumerated 
— that  within  a  short  time  one  who  exhibits 
no  intelligence  concerning  the  theatre,  no 
feeling  of  responsibility  in  his  playgoing 
habits,  no  conception  of  its  cultural  possibil 
ities  or  ethical  significance,  will  be  written 
down  a  barbarian — just  as  he  would  if  he 
showed  no  acquaintance  with  George  Mere 
dith  as  a  Victorian  novelist,  or  Whistler  as 
an  impressionist  painter,  or  Wagner  as  a 
master  of  tone. 

There  is  an  idea  abroad  (to  mention  yet 
another  drawback  to  a  better  view  of  the 
playhouse),  which  is  prejudicial  in  its  effect; 
I  mean  the  belief  that  the  so-called  higher 


34  The  New  American  Drama 

drama  is  so  high  as  to  be  out  of  sight;  and 
that  plays  really  worth  while  must  be  un- 
dramatic,  stupid  and  sad — in  other  words, 
that  culture  means  misery.  The  situation 
here  is  as  unfortunate  as  it  is  complex;  and 
must  be  so  handled  as  to  make  it  evident  that 
by  "best"  we  only  mean  what  is  wholesome, 
enjoyable,  not  too  good  for  human  nature's 
daily  food;  thoughtful,  but  not  drearily  or  ex 
clusively  intellectual;  in  brief,  the  rational 
amusement  you  would  offer  in  other  fields  of 
art.  It  is  not  a  counsel  of  perfection,  nor  an 
attack  upon  what  the  majority  of  normal 
humanity  desire  when  they  go  to  the  play 
house;  which  would  be  suicidal  in  an  art 
which  Nietzsche  very  properly  calls  "The 
art  of  the  masses,"  par  excellence,  and  Strind- 
berg  declares  to  be  "the  people's  Bible." 
Rather  is  it  a  protest  against  the  banalities, 
stupidities  and  indecencies  of  comic  opera, 
farce  comedy,  vaudeville  and  all  their  kind 
— the  slap-stick  appeals  for  public  favor. 
With  one  theatre  in  every  town  which  could 
be  counted  on  to  present  clean,  wholesome, 


The  Theatre  and  the  People          3$ 

pleasurable  plays,  those  in  the  community 
who  wished  to  giggle  at  double  meanings 
and  rejoice  in  undraped  anatomy,  would  still 
have  ample  opportunity,  but  others,  with  dif 
fering  tastes,  might  have  their  proper  food. 
And  even  the  gigglers  and  gourmands  of 
the  flesh,  since  they  are  complex  human 
beings  capable  of  both  good  and  bad,  might 
be  attracted  to  something  better;  certainly 
the  good  would  have  a  constant  tendency 
to  kill  the  bad. 

It  is  a  thousand  pities,  for  example,  that 
Ibsen  has  been  emphasized  in  this  country 
upon  his  grimmest  and  gloomiest  side,  so 
that  in  the  minds  of  too  many  he  is  a  syn 
onym  for  pathology  and  pessimism;  as  if 
"The  Wild  Duck"  and  "Hedda  Gabler" 
were  all  of  him;  as  if  he  were  not  also  the 
creator  of  "The  Pillars  of  Society,"  "An 
Enemy  of  the  People,"  "The  Lady  from  the 
Sea"  and  "A  Doll's  House,"  all  of  them 
bracing  dramas  of  constructive  thought  and 
sound  ethics.  To  know  the  more  sombre 
plays  alone,  like  "Ghosts,"  or  the  more  mys- 


36  The  New  American  Drama 

tic,  like  the  "Master  Builder,"  however  tre 
mendous  they  may  be,  is  not  to  be  familiar 
with  Ibsen  in  his  rounded  accomplishment 
and  full  message.  But  this  is  widely  mis 
understood  and  so  the  groans  of  the  Tired 
Business  Man,  haled  by  his  wife  to  a  special 
performance  of  "Ghosts"  or  "Rosmersholm" 
(she  has  devoted  a  whole  half  year  to  the 
Norwegian  in  club  study  and  of  course  knows 
him  from  A  to  Z),  is  heard  in  the  land — all 
over  it,  in  truth.  I  think  we  can  afford  to 
extend  him  a  little  sympathy;  most  of  us 
have  been  tired  once  or  twice  in  our  lives, 
and  the  fact  that  he  is  overwearied  when 
the  night  falls,  is  the  fault  in  a  measure  of 
too  strenuous  American  business  methods. 
So  that,  taking  the  situation  as  it  is,  Ibsen 
is  surely  not  the  ideal  fodder  for  him.  In 
managing  his  case  (poetic)  justice  must  be 
tempered  with  mercy;  he  must  be  lured  away 
from  musical  comedy  and  vaudeville  and 
moving  pictures  by  the  via  media  of  dramas 
like  "The  Man  from  Home,"  or  "The  For 
tune  Hunter,"  or  "The  Deep  Purple."  This 


The   Theatre  and  the  People  37 

course  of  treatment,  judiciously  applied,  will 
prepare  him  in  time  for  an  occasional  dose 
of  something  more  serious  and  literary.  For 
he  is  a  well  meaning,  if  limited,  fellow,  your 
Tired  Business  Man,  and  whether  he  goes 
or  not,  he  generally  pays  for  the  tickets. 

The  fact  is  that,  historically,  he  is  a  by 
product  of  the  Puritan;  a  Puritan  with  a 
worldly  coat  on.  He  vaguely  feels  that  the 
theatre  simply  should  offer  what  he  calls 
a  "show,"  but  unlike  the  Puritan,  he  pro 
poses  to  enjoy  it.  He  has  little  use  for  cul 
ture,  or  ethics,  or  unpleasantness  in  the  play 
house.  "I  just  want  to  be  amused,"  he  says, 
plaintively.  Poor  dear,  he  is  really  a  pa 
thetic  object,  and  should  with  infinite  ten 
derness  be  delicately  inducted  into  a  broader 
comprehension  of  the  word  amusement,  his 
misconceptions  cleared  away  in  most  friendly 
fashion,  in  no  wise  with  scorn.  For,  after 
all,  he  has  a  death  grip  on  one  idea  that  is 
entirely  right:  that  primarily,  pleasure  is 
what  all  the  world  goes  to  the  theatre  for. 
And  that  his  taste  is  at  the  bottom  sound, 


38  The  New  American  Drama 

is  shown  by  the  way  he  likes  dramas  such 
as  "Cousin  Kate,"  and  "A  Message  from 
Mars,"  and  "The  Music  Master,"  and  "The 
Melting  Pot,"  and  "The  Man  from  Home," 
and  "The  Witching  Hour";  yes,  and  even 
"The  Servant  in  the  House,"  if  you  do  not 
tell  him  too  much  about  its  ineffability  in 
advance.  Our  mistake  with  him  lies  in  con 
ceiving  of  him  as  a  lost  soul,  and  insisting  on 
drastic  measures  of  reform;  and  his  mistake 
(for  he  must  take  his  share  of  the  blame),  is 
in  thinking  that  a  play  cannot  be  fun  and 
at  the  same  time  be  of  cultural  influence. 
He  must  be  made  to  realize  that  to  see  a 
work  of  art  may  not  be  the  equivalent  of 
taking  unpleasant  medicine;  that  there  is 
no  real  antagonism  between  pleasure  and 
profit;  since  the  wise  men  to-day  are  telling 
us  that  the  most  fruitful  progress  always 
comes  when  the  pleasurableness  is  most 
active. 

Another  phase  of  this  current  misconcep 
tion  may  be  noted  in  the  idea  that  literary 
drama  consists  of  bad  play-making  orna- 


The  Theatre  and  the  People          39 

mented  with  the  flowers  of  rhetoric  by  per 
sons  who  know  (or  think  they  know)  how  to 
make  poetry  or  fiction  or  essays,  who  per 
chance  have  reputation  in  those  fields,  but 
unhappily  conceive  themselves  competent  to 
build  good  plays.  Hence,  their  work  is 
hailed  and  heralded  by  the  elite  as  something 
very  choice  and  the  first  night  audience 
(there  usually  is  not  a  second)  goes  forth 
into  the  world  with  Oh's!  and  Ah's!  and  is 
bitter  when  the  critics  declare  the  stuff  is 
awful,  and  the  general  public  will  not  come. 
With  considerable  justice,  be  it  confessed, 
Philistia  raises  its  hands  and  cries:  "From 
literary  drama,  good  Lord  deliver  us!" 

Of  course,  the  trouble  here  is,  that  the 
literary  persons  overlook  the  fact  that  a 
fundamental  of  all  good  drama  is  skill  in 
the  doing  of  it,  and  the  breath  of  life  infused 
into  the  product.  Nothing  is  more  difficult 
in  the  whole  range  of  creative  literature 
than  to  make  a  play  which  shall  at  the  same 
time  answer  the  demands  of  art  and  yet  with 
skilled  vitality  drive  its  meaning  home  to 


40  The   \e:c  American   Drama 

the  general  public.  Luckily,  this  lesson  is 
fast  being  learned  and  the  number  of  mis 
guided  ones  who  turn  airily  from  other  fields 
of  literary  endeavor  to  pen  a  play  for  the 
nonce,  without  a  scintilla  of  technic,  is  grow 
ing  beautifully  less.  Nowadays,  our  Barries 
and  Zangwills  across  the  water,  or  here  at 
home  our  Tarkingtons,  Davises,  Moodys  and 
Mackayes,  turn  from  poetry  and  fiction  and 
by  dint  of  hard  work  acquire  the  method  of 
a  different  and  difficult  form,  and  so  win 
plaudits  therein. 

Yet  another  tendency  which  hurts  the  wel 
fare  of  the  theatre,  is  the  prevalent  sneer  at 
the  present,  the  overpraise  of  past  times.  But 
this  is  not  peculiar  to  our  day;  like  the  poor, 
the  laudator  temporis  acti  is  always  with  us, 
and  on  the  whole  very  much  harder  to  bear. 
"Stop  my  subscription  to  the  paper,"  shouted 
the  iriate  patron  of  Punch.  "It  isn't  half  so 
good  as  it  was  twenty  years  ago."  "No," 
replied  the  canny  representative  of  a  great 
British  institution,  as  he  erased  the  name,  "it 
never 


The   Theatre  and  the  People  41 

Let  us  acknowledge,  however,  that  this 
type  is  often  maddening,  familiar,  even  an 
cient,  as  he  may  be.  One  gets  very  weary  of 
his  voice  as  he  complacently  drones  along: 
"O,  the  great  drama  of  the  past!  The  trouble 
now  is  we  have  no  playwrights,  no  real  plays, 
no  players,  no  cultivated  playgoers  (save 
myself),  no  anything  which  goes  to  make  a 
condition  illumined  even  by  a  ray  of  hope. 
Give  us  plays  that  are  art,  literature,  and 
the  theatre  will  take  care  of  itself  without 
the  wasted  labor  of  those  who  see  a  little 
betterment  here  and  there." 

The  worst  of  this  twaddle  is,  that  it  de 
ceives  so  many;  for  nothing  is  so  easy  as  to 
set  up  for  a  critic  by  pooh-poohing  and 
patronizing  what  is  so  near  and  new  as  to  be 
hard  to  judge  with  independence.  Seemingly 
solid  and  persistent  reputations  are  built  up 
by  this  method;  one  of  the  minor  mysteries 
in  an  essentially  mysterious  world.  A  noble 
discontent  with  the  present  is  always  wel 
come,  because  it  is  forward-looking  and  con 
structive;  but  this  other  kind  is,  like  all  Gaul, 


42  The  New  American  Drama 

divided  into  three  parts:  into  pretence,  igno 
rance  and  idiocy.  When  it  is  ignorance,  it  is 
simply  an  exhibition  of  inadequate  intellec 
tual  endowment;  but  when  it  is  a  purpose 
ful  open-eyed  discrediting  of  modern  accom 
plishment,  it  is  a  form  of  dishonesty,  and 
to  be  treated  as  such.  It  is  all  the  more  rep 
rehensible  to-day,  in  view  of  the  remarkable 
movement  toward  better  things  artwise  and 
ethically,  in  the  theatre.  It  is  this  change  for 
the  better,  along  with  much  that  is  still  bad, 
deplorably  so,  that  is  really  significant  and 
makes  the  present  moment  significant  to  an 
eye  which  refuses  to  see  through  a  glass 
darkly. 

The  practical  managers  are  not  so  bad  as 
they  have  been  painted.  The  Syndicate,  so 
often  used  as  a  sort  of  bogey  to  scare  children 
withal,  and  truth  to  tell,  having  its  good  as 
well  as  its  evil  side,  is  broken,  so  that  health 
ful  competition  will  increasingly  have  a 
chance.  Actor-managers,  half  a  dozen  of 
them,  are  exercising  a  salutary  influence,  on 
the  whole,  and  actors  are  more  than  glad  to 


The  Theatre  and  the  People  43 

play  in  dramas  sound  as  art  and  as  life.  We 
have  a  good  number  of  dramatic  critics  scat 
tered  over  the  land  who  possess  intelligence, 
honesty  of  purpose,  training  and  a  sense  of 
higher  possibility  in  their  calling.  The  able 
critics  are  by  no  means  all  in  New  York, 
nor  are  quite  all  the  critics  there  corrupt  and 
sycophantic.  And  we  shall  get  more  dra 
matic  critics  of  the  best  sort  just  in  propor 
tion  as  the  public  wakes  up  to  the  very  great 
service  such  men  can  do  in  helping  to  edu 
cate  an  enlightened  theatre  audience.  To 
be  perfectly  frank  with  ourselves,  the  main 
trouble  is  with  us,  the  theatregoing  public. 
It  is  idle  to  shift  the  blame  to  the  shoulders 
of  actor,  manager  or  any  other  scapegoat;  the 
chief  sinner  is  the  citizen  who  refuses  to  see 
anything  in  the  playhouse  but  a  low,  frivo 
lous  form  of  meaningless  amusement. 

All  have  a  duty  here.  We  can  help  in 
dividually  and  collectively.  In  the  first  place, 
we  can  go  to  the  theatre,  instead  of  turning 
our  back  upon  it;  and  next,  we  can  go  to 
it  intelligently,  by  which  I  mean,  we  can 


44  The  New  American  Drama 

bring  culture  and  conscience  to  bear  upon 
the  theatre  habit.  To  go  to  a  theatre  in 
telligently,  is  to  know  the  significance  of  what 
you  select  to  see;  and  to  demand  that  it 
should  truthfully  show  life,  give  the  pleas 
ure  proper  to  art  and,  in  the  broad  sense,  do 
us  good.  If  you  cut  off  any  one  of  the  three 
from  the  desirable  activity  of  the  playhouse, 
you  cripple  its  power  and  becloud  its  func 
tion.  If  you  excise  them  all,  you  have  naught 
left  but  filth,  frivolity  and  fashion. 

The  first  duty,  therefore,  is  to  be  aware  of 
your  orientation  on  facing  playward.  And 
culture  and  conscience  are  necessary  to  make 
this  feasible.  For  example,  in  a  certain  mag 
azine  article,  a  clergyman  widely  known  in 
religion  and  literature  was  discoursing  upon 
this  theme,  and  while  expressing  his  convic 
tion  of  the  potential  power  for  good  in  the 
playhouse,  declared  himself  after  the  man 
ner  of  Jeremiah  with  regard  to  its  present 
state.  One  sentence  I  must  quote:  "I  sel 
dom  go  to  the  theatre  myself,  because  I  do 
not  know  what  I  am  liable  to  run  into,  even 
when  the  actors  are  first-class." 


The   Theatre  and  the  People  45 

In  this  remark,  all  unconsciously,  the 
writer  offers  himself  as  a  magnificent  illus 
tration  of  the  traditionally  philistine  view  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon  race  in  respect  of  the  play 
house.  Why,  in  heaven's  name,  does  he  not 
know  what  he  is  "liable  to  run  into"?  The 
answer  is  easy:  Because  he  (like  millions 
more)  has  not  dreamed  that  it  is  a  part  of 
his  cultural  and  his  Christian  duty  to  become 
intelligent  in  the  affairs  of  this  people's  art, 
this  mighty  educational  influence,  the  theatre. 
In  his  attitude  toward  any  other  phase  of 
thought  and  life,  we  should,  as  likely  as 
not,  find  him  sane  and  progressive;  here,  he 
is  about  as  modern  as  the  megatherium.  It 
is  easy  for  him  or  for  any  other  man  of  like 
education  to  know  in  advance  about  the  plays 
he  sees,  if  he  is  willing  to  take  the  same 
amount  of  time  and  trouble  which  he  would 
not  hesitate  to  take  over  some  other  social 
or  literary  question;  and  the  theatre  is  both. 
It  is,  indeed,  discouraging  when  the  very 
men  who  should  lead  opinion  in  the  matter, 
go  haphazard  to  the  playhouse,  blunting 
their  own  perceptions,  losing  the  good  that 


46  The  New  American  Drama 

might  be  gained,  and  furnishing  a  very  bad 
example  to  others. 

Culture  should  guide  us  aright  to  the  de 
sirable  play;  conscience,  not  for  a  moment 
blinded  by  artistic  values  or  literary  excel 
lencies,  stimulating  as  they  are,  must  insist  on 
the  discrimination  between  large,  noble  trag 
edy  which  broadens  sympathy,  and  that 
which  is  merely  devitalizing;  between  humor 
that  is  clean,  alleviating  and  corrective,  and 
that  which  is  low,  cheap  and  asinine ;  between 
an  earnest  and  honest  attempt  to  depict  the 
world  as  it  is,  and  such  representations  as 
constitute  an  insidious  arousal  of  the  beast 
in  man.  We  can  all  act  upon  the  principle 
as  individual  theatregoers;  and  also  in  our 
many  associate  and  corporative  capacities, — 
as  we  have  seen  is  being  done  so  widely,  by 
clubs  and  organizations  innumerable,  all  over 
the  land;  by  none  more,  or  more  helpfully, 
than  by  the  women's  clubs  of  America. 

In  our  vision  of  the  City  Beautiful,  now 
beginning  to  take  form  and  substance  through 
the  teaching  of  the  wise,  we  may  hopefully 


The  Theatre  and  the  People          47 

anticipate  in  every  city  of  the  land  a  central 
and  seemly  structure  above  whose  portal  the 
legend  writ  shall  not  be: 

"All  hope  abandon  ye  who  enter  here," 

but  rather,  "Come  unto  me,  all  ye  who  labor 
and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you 
rest."  Nor  by  rest  shall  we  mean  mere  animal 
vacuity  of  mind  and  surcease  from  the  outer 
world  of  hunger  and  work  and  love;  but  that 
nobler  rest  which  signifies  refreshment,  recre 
ation,  because  the  mind  and  the  emotions  are 
symmetrically  aroused  by  the  presentation  of 
Life  so  broadly,  genially,  fruitfully,  that  all 
who  witness  are  taken  out  of  their  small  and 
monotonous  round  of  personal  activity  and 
made  participants  in  the  greatness  of  man's 
destiny,  co-heirs  in  his  universal  sorrow  and 
joy.  And  when  the  theatre  is  thus  made  a 
Temple  of  Life,  wisely  instructing  man 
even  while  it  furnishes  him  with  rational 
pleasure,  it  will  be  known  for  a  sacred  place, 
and  reckoned  as  a  pride  of  the  nation. 


IA    IH  ^^ 

THE  TENTATIVE    PERIOD 

THE  subject  of  the  American  drama  is 
perilously  modern.  The  academic  mind,  in 
deed,  regards  it  as  practically  non-existent. 
To  get  a  lively  sense  of  this,  one  has  only 
to  turn  to  the  many  manuals  and  historical 
studies  devoted  to  our  literary  development, 
and  mark  the  absence  of  any  adequate  treat 
ment  of  the  drama.  If  it  receive  any  notice 
at  all,  it  is  exceptional.  In  almost  all  such 
books,  it  is  tacitly  assumed  that  no  writers 
who  possess  literary  excellence  have  used 
the  play  form.  The  situation  is  humorously 
Jiit  off  by  Mr.  W.  P.  Eaton  in  his  "The 
'American  Stage  of  To-day,"  where  he  re 
ports  Mr.  Huneker's  reply  to  an  inquiry  as 
to  what  he  was  engaged  in  writing. 

"  'About  the  drama/  "  he  replied. 

"'  American'?" 

48 


The  Tentative  Period  49 

"  'I  said  about  the  drama/  "  Mr.  Huneker 
retorted,  with  a  Monalisacal  smile." 

But  the  critics  are  fast  changing  with  the 
drama  itself,  and,  more  slowly,  the  public. 
Writers  on  stage  matters  like  Matthews, 
Eaton,  Hamilton,  Bennett  and  a  few  others 
are  doing  in  this  country  what  has  been 
done  in  England  by  Shaw,  Walkeley,  Archer 
and  their  kind,  to  inform  and  direct  an  in 
telligent  theatre-going  and  drama-knowing 
public. 

The  fact  that  an  intelligent  attitude  was 
so  long  delayed  is  explained,  of  course,  in 
the  late  birth  of  the  native  drama  worthy 
of  serious  attention.  It  is  a  thing,  one  might 
fairly  say,  of  the  present  generation;  hardly 
to  be  reckoned  with  before  1870,  a  year,  it 
may  be  added,  significant  for  a  general  move 
ment  in  literature  summed  up  in  the  familiar 
word,  realism.  If  Miss  Ellen  Terry  may 
be  taken  as  a  witness,  this  was  true  even 
later.  In  "The  Story  of  My  Life"  she  says: 
"In  1883  there  was  no  living  American 
drama,  as  there  is  now."  And  she  makes  the 


50  The  New  American  Drama 

interesting  remark  that  "the  true  dramatic 
pleasure  of  the  people  is,  I  believe,  in  such 
plays,  where  very  complete  observation  of 
certain  phases  of  American  life,  and  very 
real  pictures  of  manners  are  combined  with 
comedy  almost  child-like  in  its  naivete," 
a  description  not  inapplicable  to  much  that 
is  seen  to-day. 

Expressing  it  in  sweeping  terms,  we  might 
say  that  the  drama  on  native  soil  has  passed 
through  the  three  stages  of  neglect,  imitation 
of  foreign  models,  and  independence;  the 
third,  having  but  just  begun  and  of  genuine 
promise  for  the  near  future.  These  stages 
represent  the  Colonial,  Revolutionary  and 
modern  periods  of  our  development,  and  the 
really  fruitful  and  significant  part  of  the 
movement  lies  within  the  present  generation; 
a  span  of  thirty  to  forty  years.  The  older 
play-making,  interesting  as  it  may  be  to  the 
specialist,  interesting  indeed  as  all  evolution 
ary  processes  are  to  the  historical  student, 
is  mostly  negligible  from  the  point  of  view 
of  literature  or  of  skilful  play  making;  the 


The  Tentative  Period  51 

drama  that  has  value  as  art  and  message  in 
the  interpretation  of  Life.  No  wonder,  when 
the  drama  in  the  United  States  is  so  recently 
born,  that  we  find  an  acute  critic  referring  to 
it  as  "Our  Infant  Industry."  Nor  has  it, 
like  other  American  industries,  been  pro 
tected  by  a  prohibitive  tariff;  foreign  goods, 
in  the  way  of  translations  and  adaptations 
beyond  all  reckoning,  have  deluged  the  land 
during  the  period  of  imitation. 

The  earliest  period  can  for  our  purposes 
be  rather  summarily  dispatched.  Naturally, 
the  colonists  when  they  were  cut  off  from 
the  mother  land  had  scant  time  and  little 
inclination  to  consider  the  theatre  either  as 
a  means  of  amusement  or  a  serious  art.  In 
deed  the  Puritan  element  which  came  to  this 
country  in  the  early  seventeenth  century,  cher 
ished  a  distinct  prejudice  against  the  play 
house  :  shown  in  the  sentiment  that  closed  the 
public  theatres  of  England  for  a  term  of  years 
and  damaged  the  welfare  of  dramatic  litera 
ture,  imperilling  for  a  long  time  the  very  ex 
istence  of  drama  as  a  vital  stage  product. 


52  The  New  American  Drama 

The  early  day  in  America  was  practical  in 
its  demands,  political  in  its  interests,  utili 
tarian  in  its  necessities.  An  art  cannot  well 
flourish  in  such  soil.  Technically,  however, 
we  may  say  that  American  drama  has  a  life 
of  more  than  two  centuries  and  a  half.  The 
researches  of  Mr.  John  J.  Neidig  have  shown 
that  so  early  as  1640  a  play  was  written  by 
Jesuit  priests  in  this  country.  Even  re 
ligion,  it  would  seem,  did  not  protect  the 
early  inhabitants  from  the  universal  human 
itch  for  dramatic  composition,  which  date 
carries  dramatic  writing  back  from  1752, 
hitherto  named  as  the  beginning,  over  a  cen 
tury.  Mr.  Neidig  has  also  found  evidence 
that  the  first  play  was  acted  in  Williamsburg, 
Va.,  in  1702. 

Ignoring  the  London  players,  who  in  1752 
presented  Shakspere  in  New  York  and  Phil 
adelphia,  and  sundry  dramas  written  for 
amateur  production,  Royall  Tyler's  "The 
Contrast,"  seen  in  the  metropolis  in  1787, 
was  genuinely  American  in  theme,  the  first 
of  its  kind  to  be  given  professionally  upon 


The   Tentative  Period  53 

native  ground.  It  is  significant  for  its  intro 
duction  of  that  stock  figure  of  Jonathan, 
which  was  to  become  so  serviceable  in  the 
later  drama;  and  for  the  commendable  cry 
ing  up  of  homespun  things,  afterward  to 
be  seen  in  "Horse-shoe  Robinson,"  "Davy 
Crockett,"  and  other  types.  Thus  it  had  a 
native  quality.  Two  years  later  came  "The 
Father,"  of  William  Dunlap,  whose  services 
as  theatre  manager  and  historian  of  the 
American  theatre,  as  well  as  prolific  play- 
maker,  make  him  the  most  conspicuous  of 
the  earlier  influences  in  our  dramatic  de 
velopment.  The  themes  chosen  by  these  and 
other  early  writers  for  the  stage  were  pre 
vailingly  foreign,  however.  The  shadow  of 
a  foreign  dramatist  like  Kotzebue  lay  long 
and  large  over  the  native  land.  But  imita 
tion,  lowliest  of  compliments,  was  the  rule; 
adaptation  engaged  the  main  strength  of  the 
pioneers. 

There  is  point  in  Ambrose  Bierce's  defini 
tion  of  a  dramatist  in  his  "Devil's  Diction 
ary":  "One  who  adapts  from  the  French." 


54  The  New  American  Drama 

Occasionally,  as  when  J.  K.  Paulding  set 
the  negro  on  the  stage,  or  John  Murdock 
did  the  same  for  the  Quaker,  there  was  early 
evidence  of  a  feeling  for  native  characters. 
The  professional  companies  confined  their 
itinerary  to  New  York,  Boston,  Philadelphia 
and  Baltimore,  with  an  occasional  sally  to 
one  of  the  larger  southern  cities;  and  there 
was  naturally  an  almost  complete  absence  of 
that  wonderfully  organized  system  which  to 
day  enables  practically  the  whole  country 
to  see  a  popular  piece  or  player.  My  account 
also  leaves  out  the  closet  play,  which,  like  the 
poor,  is  always  with  us,  and  amateur  per 
formances  as  well;  otherwise  mention  might 
be  made  of  Brackenbridge's  "The  Battle  of 
Bunker  Hill,"  which  was  presented  in  1776 
by  school  children,  the  author  being  at  the 
time  a  teacher.  Regular  theatres  existed  be 
fore  the  Revolution  in  several  northern  and 
southern  cities,  although  Boston  did  not  have 
one  until  near  the  close  of  the  century,  in 
1794. 

It  is   interesting  to  find   Dunlap,   at  the 


The  Tentative  Period  55 

close  of  his  invaluable  "History  of  The 
American  Theatre,"  with  the  situation  in 
1832  in  mind,  lamenting  the  deterioration  of 
the  playhouse  in  this  land  (the  same  old 
inevitable  cry),  and  suggesting  in  the  most 
enlightened  modern  way  a  national  theatre 
as  the  proper  way  out;  "if  the  expenses  of 
a  national  theatre,"  he  says,  "should  exceed 
the  receipts,  let  it  be  supplied  by  increased 
taxes  on  taverns  and  tippling  houses."  His 
plea  for  the  theatre  as  an  engine  of  civiliza 
tion  is  a  broad  and  rightminded  one  that 
can  hardly  be  improved  upon  now.  Espe 
cially  is  he  to  be  commended  for  so  frankly 
placing  the  influence  of  the  institution  upon 
an  educative  basis  and  assuming  its  moral  ob 
ligation  to  the  community.  To  read  over  his 
list  of  dramatic  authors  who  contributed  up 
to  Dunlap's  day  to  the  stage,  is  to  be  struck 
with  the  ephemeral  nature  of  literary  activ 
ity.  Here  are  no  less  than  a  hundred  play- 
makers,  to  say  nothing  of  some  thirty  anony 
mous  dramas,  with  such  names  as  Cooper, 
John  Howard  Payne,  George  P.  Morris, 


56  The  New  American  Drama 

James  K.  Paulding  and  Samuel  Woodworth 
represented:  and  not  a  single  play  of  them 
all  has  survived  to  our  own  day.  Evidently, 
it  was  a  time  of  European  domination,  of 
timid  initiative,  of  defective  technic,  or  of  no 
technic  at  all.  It  is  well  to  realize  this  by 
way  of  present  encouragement,  when  some 
praiser  of  past  times  like  Mr.  William  Win 
ter  is  painting  in  all  the  colors  of  the  rain 
bow  the  earlier  conditions  of  the  theatre,  the 
loss  of  which  he  so  eloquently  laments.  We 
can  gladly  concede  to  such  an  idealist  the 
sterling  players  of  the  past  and  their  personal 
sense  of  the  dignity  of  their  art,  without  for 
a  moment  blinding  ourselves  to  the  general 
improvement  of  the  state  of  the  theatre  dur 
ing  the  present  generation. 

In  other  words,  in  America,  as  in  England, 
the  idea  of  the  stage  having  a  vital  relation 
to  literature,  and  not  a  kind  of  "underground 
connection,"  as  a  clever  British  critic  has  put 
it  of  late, — was  not  being  helped  along  by 
the  dramatic  happenings;  gradually,  the  very 
class,  small  but  influential,  upon  whose  suf- 


The  Tentative  Period  57 

frages  sound  drama  had  to  depend,  was  re 
ceiving  the  impression  that,  regarded  as  an 
art,  or  an  institution  which  ought  to  do  with 
letters,  the  stage  did  not  exist. 

To  pass  from  the  period  of  neglect  to  that 
of  general  activity,  when  the  theatre  has  be 
come  an  institution  widely  patronized,  and 
play-making  is  prolific  and  profitable,  is  to 
reach  the  final  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  cen 
tury — practically  our  own  time.  A  careful 
examination  of  our  theatrical  annals  from 
1800  to  1875,  and  particularly  from  the  mid 
century  to  the  date  when  Robertson  in  Eng 
land  and  Bronson  Howard  in  this  country 
began  to  get  a  hearing  for  work  genuinely 
and  encouragingly  modern,  will  show  how 
imitative  and  provincially  dependent  the 
English-speaking  drama  still  was  upon  for 
eign  inspiration  and  material.  In  the  Union 
Square  Theatre  and  Wallack's,  those  sterling 
New  York  playhouses  of  the  past,  the  offer 
ings  during  twenty-five  years  are  so  prevail 
ingly  British  or  continental,  more  or  less  doc 
tored  for  the  presumed  American  demand, 


58  The  New  American  Drama 

that  a  really  native  play  in  motive  and  manu 
facture  is  as  rare  as  an  endowed  theatre  in 
the  United  States  to-day.  An  exception  here 
and  there  may  be  noted:  as  in  Mrs.  Mowatt's 
"Fashion,"  which  in  1845  was  significant  for 
its  satirical  observation  of  New  York  society, 
its  attempt  to  get  away  from  the  London 
point  of  view.  But  such  sporadic  instances 
only  emphasize  the  dearth. 

Of  course,  this  was  a  time  of  notable  play 
ers:  of  Hackett,  and  Forrest,  and  Cushman, 
and  Laura  Keene;  of  Davenport  and  Barrett, 
the  Barney  Williams  and  the  Florences;  of 
Warren  and  Jefferson,  the  Wallacks,  the 
Drews  and  the  Booths,  to  mention  but  a  few 
names.  Still,  the  prevalence  of  great  actors, 
now  standing  out  in  high  relief  with  the 
passing  of  years,  is  by  no  means  commensu 
rate  with  the  general  welfare  of  drama. 
Players  of  genius,  bred  upon  the  elder  tradi 
tions  of  the  stage  and  using  the  standard  dra 
matic  literature  of  the  past,  can  and  in  fact 
commonly  do  exist  prior  to  the  development 
of  anything  like  a  worthy  native  drama. 


The  Tentative  Period  59 

They  are  an  impulsion  from  better  conditions 
in  the  past.  The  influence  of  a  distinguished 
actor-manager  like  Lester  Wallack,  for  ex 
ample,  strong  as  it  was  in  keeping  up  the 
finer  traditions  of  the  profession,  was  quite 
negligible  on  the  side  of  native  production. 
The  same  is  true  of  Augustin  Daly.  In  fact, 
the  advantage  and  disadvantage  of  our  con 
nection  with  British  culture  were  both  illus 
trated  in  this  earlier  development. 

The  career  of  Dion  Boucicault  is  illumina 
tive  of  the  statement  that  we  were  still  in  the 
period  of  imitation.  Here  was  an  Irishman 
who,  as  a  very  young  man  in  London,  pro 
duced  that  brilliant  comedy  of  manners, 
"London  Assurance";  who  secured  an  envi 
able  reputation  before  he  came  to  America; 
who,  after  he  had  become  practically  an 
American  actor  and  playwright,  won  wide 
popularity  and  critical  applause  for  such 
Irish  plays  as  "The  Shaughran"  and  "Colleen 
Bawn";  and  then,  by  dramatizing  Irving's 
classic,  gave  us  in  "Rip  Van  Winkle"  the 
most  famous  drama  of  its  kind  produced  on 


60  The  New  American  Drama 

American  soil  and  with  all  its  obvious  faults, 
technical  and  spiritual,  still  a  play  of  vital 
stage  value.  Merely  viewed  as  an  object  les 
son  in  the  native  possibilities,  "Rip  Van 
Winkle"  deserves  our  suffrages,  quite  aside 
from  the  familiar  fact  that  it  solidified  the 
name  and  fame  of  the  best-loved  comedian  of 
our  time.  Audiences  bothered  little  over 
loose  construction  or  conventional  characteri 
zation,  if  only  they  could  hear  Jefferson 
say: 

"If  Schneider  was  here,  he  would  know 
me" ;  or  might  listen  when  he  asked  that  ter 
rible  question : 

"Are  we  so  soon  forgotten  when  we  are 
gone?" 

Clara  Morris,  in  reporting  a  conversation 
with  him,  has  testified  that  Boucicault  really 
desired  to  make  use  of  native  material  more 
than  he  did, — and  that  the  phenomenal  early 
success  of  "London  Assurance"  stood  in  the 
way  of  a  cordial  attitude  toward  anything 
American.  This  is  but  one  illustration  of  the 
general  feeling. 


The   Tentative  Period  6 1 

Another  figure,  picturesque,  forceful,  pro 
gressive,  was  that  of  Steele  Mackaye,  whose 
son  Percy  is  so  honorably  maintaining  the 
family  relation  to  the  drama  and  the  theatre 
which  is  its  home.  As  actor,  playwright, 
teacher,  lecturer,  his  inventive  genius  was 
very  influential  upon  the  general  welfare  of 
the  American  theatre  during  the  decades 
1870-1890.  Including  adaptations,  he  wrote 
no  less  than  eighteen  plays,  one  of  which, 
"Hazel  Kirke,"  was  not  only  the  most  popu 
lar  piece  of  its  time,  but  distinctly  a  step  for 
ward  in  technic  and  legitimate  handling  of 
the  family  motive.  But  Steele  Mackaye's 
dominant  personality  and  many  sided  gifts 
left  their  impress  in  other  directions  than 
dramaturgy.  He  invented  the  double  stage 
of  the  Madison  Square  Theatre,  was  archi 
tect  of  the  old  Lyceum  Theatre,  devised  the 
Spectatorium  at  Chicago;  taught  Delsarte 
principles  of  gesture  and  carriage;  helped  to 
found  the  Sargent  School,  now  known  as  the 
American  Academy  of  Dramatic  Art,  and 
in  other  ways  not  a  few  had  a  main  share  in 


62  The  New  American  Drama 

improving  what  might  be  called  the  art  of 
the  theatre.  He  was  an  earlier  Belasco.  Al 
though  prevailingly  his  dramas  were  not  na 
tive  in  theme,  his  "Paul  Kauvar,"  dealing 
with  aspects  of  anarchy,  showed  him  as  sen 
sitive  to  vital  modern  material,  and  of  his 
influence  as  a  whole  it  can  be  truly  said  that 
it  was  high  and  beneficial. 

Another  pioneer,  of  still  greater  signifi 
cance  in  the  development,  and  indeed  for  sev 
eral  reasons  the  most  remarkable  man  of  his 
time,  was  the  late  James  A.  Herne.  As  our 
literary  history  continues  and  the  importance 
of  the  drama  in  that  evolution  becomes  more 
and  more  apparent,  the  name  of  Herne  will 
be  sure  to  take  an  ever  securer  place;  he  was, 
in  the  strict  sense,  a  creative  force  in  the  thea 
tre,  ably  championing  the  new  doctrine  of 
realism  and  in  his  own  works  furnishing  ad 
mirable  early  examples  of  a  faith  and  method 
which  were  to  triumph  in  the  efforts  of  a 
school  now  obviously  symptomatic  of  our 
day. 

Some    twenty   years    ago,    in    Boston,    his 


The  Tentative  Period  63 

"Margaret  Fleming"  was  very  properly  re 
garded  by  a  select  audience  as  the  most  sig 
nificant  play  using  the  realistic  formula  yet 
seen  in  America;  it  is  probable  that  the  opin 
ion  might  still  stand,  despite  the  good  work 
we  have  hailed  since,  if  it  were  our  privi 
lege  to-day  to  possess  the  drama  in  printed 
form.  That  vastly  liked  play,  "Shore  Acres," 
of  less  importance  spiritually  than  the  other, 
nevertheless  stands  as  easily  the  best  of  all 
the  rustic  drama  of  realistic  intent.  And  in 
1899  the  noble  "Griffith  Davenport,"  which 
promptly  failed  in  New  York,  was  perhaps 
the  most  thoughtful  and  consistent  treatment 
of  the  Civil  War  theme  written  in  the  coun 
try,  not  forgetting  the  sterling  war  plays  of 
Gillette  and  Howard.  An  effective  actor  who 
has  transmitted  histrionic  blood  to  his  daugh 
ters,  and  a  wonderful  stage  manager,  Herne 
was  something  more:  a  man  thinking  truth 
fully  and  strongly  about  life,  aware  that  the 
theatre,  to  fulfil  its  function,  must  display 
Life  as  it  is,  while  ministering  also  to  our 
sense  of  beauty;  that,  in  the  language  of  the 


64  The  New  American  Drama 

able  Irish  dramatist,  Synge,  "on  the  stage  we 
must  have  reality  and  we  must  have  joy." 

I  am  sure  both  truth  and  joy  are  to  be 
found  in  a  drama  like  "Shore  Acres,"  which 
we  might  make  the  mistake  of  thinking  of  as 
too  homely  and  commonplace.  The  joy 
comes  from  the  thoroughgoing  kindliness  of 
the  author's  conception  of  human  character, 
his  right  attitude  toward  life.  The  old  light 
house  keeper  becomes  a  personal  friend  of 
the  auditor,  it  is  good  to  have  known  him. 

And  along  with  this  sane,  sweet  depiction 
of  humanity,  goes  an  exquisite  verisimilitude 
with  life,  such  a  lovingly  faithful  transcript 
of  the  human  scene  that  a  blase  Broadway 
audience  will  sit  silent  and  intense  as  the  final 
curtain  descends  upon — what?  A  sensational 
ensemble  moment,  after  the  manner  of  the 
past?  Not  at  all;  there  is  "nothing  doing," 
in  the  current  phrase.  We  are  merely  say 
ing  good-by  to  that  same  well-beloved  old 
lighthouse  man,  before  he  retires  for  the 
night.  And  the  homely,  every-day  verity  of 
it,  somehow,  holds  us  more  enchained,  actu- 


The   Tentative  Period  65 

ally,  than  if,  as  in  "The  Kreutzer  Sonata," 
Miss  Blanche  Walsh  were  shooting  somebody 
dead. 

For,  the  shooting  is  an  assault  upon  our 
nerves;  but  the  good-by  an  assault  upon  our 
sympathies, — which  is  better.  It  is  this  truth 
and  sympathy  with  life,  together  with  a 
sturdy  independence  which  finds  native 
themes  more  stimulating  than  those  from 
overseas,  which  makes  Mr.  Herne  so  deeply 
significant  in  the  development.  To  be  sure, 
the  foreign  subserviency  is  not  entirely  dead; 
the  activities  of  Mr.  Charles  Frohman  still 
look  abroad  for  inspiration  as  truly  as  did 
those  of  Lester  Wallack.  But  he  is  the  ex 
ception,  after  all,  and  the  current  has  now 
set  strong  in  favor  of  home  production;  most 
managers  nowadays  showing  an  eager  desire 
for  native  material.  At  present,  we  cannot 
alter  Sidney  Smith's  contemptuous  query: 
"Who  reads  an  American  book?"  to  read 
"Who  writes  an  American  play?"  since  they 
are  being  written  on  all  sides,  often  with 
great  success,  and  also  being  printed.  But  it 


66  The  New  American  Drama 

took  time  to  bring  this  about,  and  in  the 
process  of  effecting  the  change,  James  A. 
Herne  will  always  have  an  honorable  men 
tion. 

It  can  be  safely  set  down  as  a  general  state 
ment  that  we  shall  not  have  a  sound  drama 
until  it  is  the  custom  to  offer  the  plays  in 
book  form;  since  the  kind  of  audience  be 
hind  worthy  drama  is  only  to  be  secured 
when  it  can  add  to  the  experience  of  the 
playhouse  representation,  that  of  the  quiet 
perusal  of  the  dramatic  material  as  a  piece 
of  literature;  thereby  appreciating  its  acting 
value  all  the  more,  and  only  in  this  way  be 
coming  aware  of  certain  of  its  virtues. 

We  see  all  this  more  plainly  than  we  did 
twenty  to  twenty-five  years  ago,  because  the 
thoughtful,  critical  elements  in  society  are 
now  coming  to  consider  the  drama  as  an  in 
creasingly  important  part  of  letters:  and  its 
home,  the  theatre,  as  an  educational  force 
which  can  be  used  for  the  nobler  purposes 
of  a  people's  art.  Too  briefly,  the  stately 
New  Theatre  in  New  York  was  a  civic  ob- 


The  Tentative  Period  67 

ject  lesson  which  reminded  citizen  and 
stranger  alike  of  this  enlightened  change.  In 
earlier  days,  the  situation  was  less  self-con 
scious,  and  the  intricate  relations  of  playwrit- 
ing  as  a  profession,  theatre  conductment  and 
the  social  standing  of  actors  were  then,  as 
ever,  such  that  any  despite  of  one,  inevitably 
reacted  upon  the  others. 

It  will  be  well,  I  believe,  before  coming 
to  a  direct  examination  of  the  significant 
groups  of  dramatists  in  our  really  productive 
period,  to  dwell  a  little  upon  this  point, 
which  seems  to  me  of  great  importance  for  a 
clear  comprehension  of  the  hopeful  outlook 
and  the  removal  of  various  misconceptions 
which,  so  long  as  they  exist,  are  so  many 
drawbacks  to  progress. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  a  plain  fact  that  the 
professional  welfare  of  the  actor  has  im 
proved;  I  mean,  he  is  to-day  safer  in  his  con 
tracts,  more  comfortable,  not  to  say,  lux 
urious,  in  his  travel,  and  better  housed  in  his 
theatres,  than  a  generation  ago.  Mr.  Win 
ter,  remembering  the  personal  dignity  of 


68  The  New  American  Drama 

men  like  Palmer,  Wallack  and  Daly,  goes 
on  to  draw  the  false  deduction  that  the  actual 
physical  equipment  of  the  past  was  superior 
to  the  present,  which  is  certainly  not  so.  As 
an  organized  business,  the  theatre  was  never 
in  such  a  good  estate  as  now,  despite  the  in 
cidental  disadvantages  of  centralization;  dis 
advantages  being  rapidly  removed  by  the 
breaking  of  the  so-called  Syndicate.  So  that, 
merely  regarded  as  a  profession  to  enter,  that 
of  the  player's  is  more  attractive  than  of 
yore.  The  hardships,  uncertainties  and  dan 
gers  are  almost  entirely  of  the  earlier  and 
often  idealized  time.  Engage  a  veteran 
player  in  conversation  when  he  is  reminiscen- 
tial,  and  see  how  frankly  he  admits  this.  Mr. 
Jefferson,  in  the  delightful  record  of  his  life, 
tells  some  home  truths  about  this  matter. 

Along  with  the  betterment  on  the  material 
side,  has  gone  a  commensurate  social  im 
provement.  The  actor,  as  such,  is  more  re 
spected  than  he  was  of  old.  Taking  a  wide 
historical  survey,  it  may  be  stated  that  it  has 
taken  some  three  hundred  and  fifty  years  to 


The  Tentative  Period  69 

make  a  gentleman  out  of  the  strolling  vaga 
bond  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Do  not  con 
fuse  two  things :  histrionic  genius  has  always 
been  admired,  even  petted;  it  made  South 
ampton  the  patron  of  Shakspere  and  put 
David  Garrick  into  the  Literary  Club  as 
easy  familiar  with  Sir  Joshua,  Johnson  and 
the  rest.  What  I  would  imply  is,  that  up  to 
the  memory  of  living  man,  the  actor,  not  as 
an  individual  but  as  representative  of  his 
craft,  was  looked  at  askance,  admired  fear 
fully  and  afar,  as  an  uncanny  if  not  wicked 
phenomenon.  "When  I  went  down  Martha's 
Vineyard  way  years  ago,  to  establish  a  coun 
try  residence,"  said  a  veteran  and  distin 
guished  player  to  the  writer,  "there  were 
three  reasons  why  the  inhabitants  felt  like 
putting  a  cordon  round  the  local  bank:  I 
was  a  democrat,  a  Unitarian  and — an  actor!" 
Recall  the  Crummleses  in  "Nicholas  Nick- 
leby,"  the  Fotheringay  of  "Pendennis,"  the 
attitude  toward  Garrick  of  the  father  in  the 
play  of  that  name,  "a  play-actor  forsooth!" 
and  you  get  a  few  nineteenth  century  sur- 


70  The  New  American  Drama 

vivals  of  this  feeling.  Almost  down  to 
the  present  era,  a  slight  flavor  of  the  dis 
reputable  hung  round  the  actor  still;  no 
where  more  so  than  in  practical,  utilitarian 
America,  where  the  Artist  type  is  at  the  best 
a  queer  vagary  of  natural  law:  the  law  which 
declares  that  man's  true  mission  here  on  earth 
is  to  make  material  commodities  and  collect 
cash. 

Yes,  the  actor  had  to  wait  until  our  own 
immediate  day  to  see  himself  knighted  in 
the  persons  of  Irving,  Wyndham,  Hare, 
Squire  Bancroft  and  Beerbohm  Tree.  The 
change  has  come  from  the  spreading  of  a 
broader  conception  of  art,  from  the  gradual 
disappearance  of  the  Puritan  prejudice 
against  the  playhouse,  and  from  the  increas 
ing  tendency  to  draw  into  the  profession  folk 
of  education  and  culture  and  to  give  them  a 
precedent  training  in  the  dramatic  schools. 
It  has  a  wonderful  effect  upon  a  profession  to 
give  a  diploma  or  other  badge  testifying  to 
labor  done  for  its  sake.  The  scholastic  may 
choke  genius,  but  at  least  it  makes  for  social 


The  Tentative  Period  71 

conformity  and  a  certain  solidity  of  standing. 
Doubtless,  the  whole  business  of  degree  get 
ting  and  giving  is  largely  exaggerated  in  im 
portance  throughout  the  scholar  world.  At 
the  same  time,  I  sincerely  believe  that  the 
Dramatic  School,  as  such,  a  product  of  our 
time,  exercises  a  salutary  effect  upon  the  pub 
lic  mind,  to  say  nothing  of  what  it  does  for 
the  pupil,  in  lending  dignity  and  standing  to 
the  player's  life  role,  and  to  an  originally  no 
madic  and  dubious  employment. 

I  spoke  of  the  better  housing  of  players. 
Of  course,  nobody  in  his  senses  would  fail  to 
admit  that  a  typical  modern  playhouse  is  a 
marvel  of  luxury,  ingenuity  and  convenience 
compared  with  the  barn-like  structures  of 
the  past.  The  very  word  "barn-storming" 
tells  the  story!  How,  indeed,  the  old-time 
actors  ever  lived  through  the  rigors  of  one 
season,  knocked  about,  exposed  to  the  ele 
ments  and  to  the  hardly  more  hospitable 
mercies  of  dressing-rooms  and  taverns  as 
they  were,  is  among  the  mysteries.  Road- 
companies  doing  "one-night  stands"  no  doubt 


72  The  New  American  Drama 

still  have  to  rough  it  in  these  later  and  more 
luxurious  days;  but  in  the  details  of  heating, 
lighting,  and  general  equipment,  the  play 
houses  of  the  present  make  those  of  the  past 
seem  like  an  unpleasant  dream.  Add  to  this, 
the  commodious  and  smooth  management  of 
the  itinerary,  in  almost  all  travelling  com 
panies,  and  it  will  be  realized  that  much  of 
the  horror  of  road  work  has  vanished  with 
the  present  dispensation.  Especially  in  the 
case  of  women,  this  aspect  of  the  comparison 
cannot  justly  be  overlooked. 

With  regard  to  the  technic  of  actors  now 
and  formerly,  the  critic  finds  himself  on  par 
ticularly  ticklish  ground.  No  subject  is 
more  debated,  in  none  is  there  a  greater  lack 
of  critical  knowledge.  The  remarks  heard 
daily  as  to  so-and-so  not  being  actors,  but 
just  themselves  on  the  stage,  are  proof 
enough.  Then,  too,  we  all  of  us  have  to 
fight  that  glamour  of  the  Past  so  warping  to 
human  judgment:  the  work  of  a  player  dead 
and  gone  and  hence  canonized,  is  always  seen 
with  an  aura  around  it,  which  separates  him 


The  Tentative  Period  73 

from  the  common  herd  of  histrions  who 
have  the  misfortune  to  be  living  still.  Gen 
ius,  said  one  of  the  brothers  Goncourt,  is 
dead  talent:  a  wise  saying.  I  myself  missed 
seeing  Forrest,  the  elder  Booth,  Ristori  and 
Charlotte  Cushman.  But  with  a  fair  knowl 
edge  of  Salvini,  Janaushek,  and  Edwin 
Booth,  the  period  of  Wallack,  Barrett,  War 
ren,  and  their  like,  I  feel  sure  that  a  com 
parison  of  the  elder  and  younger  generations 
would  not  be  altogether  to  the  disparagement 
of  ours.  If  we  heard  Forrest  to-day,  it  is 
likely  we  would  find  that  he  ranted,  was 
rhetorical  and  bombastic,  tearing  his  passion 
to  tatters  after  the  robust  fashion  of  1840. 

And  this  leads  to  a  point  important  to  the 
clear  understanding  of  modern  acting,  the 
plastic  art  of  the  player.  Strictly  speaking, 
[no  comparison  can  or  should  be  made  be 
tween  the  two  schools,  since  the  things  com 
pared  are  unlike  in  aim  and  kind.  The  old- 
time  technic  was  suited  to  the  platform  stage 
of  a  generation  ago,  intermediate  between  the 
Elizabethan  apron  stage  jutting  far  down 


74  The  New  American  Drama 

into  the  auditorium,  and  the  picture-frame 
stage  of  to-day — the  proscenium  stage  of 
illusion.  Upon  the  stage  of  1850,  where  the 
platform  projected  far  in  front  of  the  cur 
tain,  the  former  actor  strutted  and  harangued, 
enlarging  all  his  effects  perforce  and  over- 
vocalizing  in  a  manner  which,  used  in  the  Ly- 
ceum  Theatre  or  Belasco's  to-day,  would  sug 
gest  a  fire  in  the  next  building.  The  ap- 
positeness  of  Pinero's  delightful  satire  in 
"Trelawny  of  the  Wells,"  upon  the  days  of 
Robertson's  comedies,  the  days  of  the  seven 
ties,  lay  in  part  in  this  difference.  The  old 
actor,  Telfer,  with  his  memories  in  the 
grandiloquent  by-gone,  can  see  nothing  in 
Tom  Wrench's  piece:  Wrench,  standing  for 
Tom  Robertson,  as  the  bringer-in  of  the 
newer  realism. 

"Do  you  like  the  play?"  Rose  asks  Telfer. 

"Like  it?"  he  replies,  with  scorn;  "there's 
not  a  speech  in  it,  my  dear,  not  a  real  speech 
— nothing  to  dig  your  teeth  into." 

Telfer's  soul,  you  observe,  fairly  yearns 
for  the  stilted,  the  artificial.  One  who  to- 


The  Tentative  Period  75 

day  witnesses  a  performance  of  Robertson's 
"Caste,"  his  best-known  piece,  can  appreciate 
the  chasm  that  lies  between  the  present  tech- 
nic  and  that  of  the  past  generation.  That 
drama  now  creaks  in  all  its  joints,  yet  it  was 
a  thrilling  advance  upon  what  went  before 
and  remains  a  piece  of  work  that  really 
counts  in  the  development  of  English  drama. 
The  failure  to  recognize  the  radical  change 
from  rhetorical  drama  to  the  latter-day 
drame  intime  is  what  led  the  New  Theatre 
to  miss  an  opportunity,  and  closed  its  doors 
untimely;  inducing  Mr.  Granville  Barker, 
after  one  look  at  its  auditorium,  to  hie  him 
home  again.  The  mistake  was,  to  try  to 
unite  drama  and  its  left-handed  son,  the 
opera. 

In  a  word,  then,  the  technic  to-day  is  ad 
mirably  adapted  to  the  changed  conditions. 
It  may  register  a  loss  in  breadth  and  tonality, 
possibly  unfitting  it  for  the  romantic  eleva 
tion  of  Shaksperean  blank  verse;  but, — to 
balance  this, — it  gains  in  verisimilitude,  the 
exquisite  reproduction  of  the  very  accent  and 


76  The  New  American  Drama 

motion  of  Life.  That  is  the  proper  technic 
for  the  modern  picture  stage;  the  stage  of 
realistic  illusion;  and  it  is  simply  nonsense  to 
prate  of  the  past  as  if  the  older  method  were 
advisable  to-day  or  even  possible.  It  is  as 
extinct  as  the  dodo  bird.  In  saying  this,  I 
would  not  be  understood  to  imply  that  verse 
plays  are  now  taboo  or  that  poetry  in  the 
broad  sense  is  not  as  welcome  as  ever  on  the 
stage.  This  matter  receives  discussion  in  a 
later  chapter.  What  I  do  mean  is,  that  the 
aim  of  dramatic  art,  being  different  from  the 
past,  the  methods  of  the  actor  inevitably 
have  changed  also,  and  his  work  must  now 
be  estimated  by  the  new  standard  which  is 
the  result. 

In  view  of  these  considerations,  is  it  not 
fitting  to  laud  with  special  laudation  the 
men  of  the  transition,  the  pioneers  who 
blazed  the  trail,  the  intermediate  figures 
who,  beginning  with  and  becoming  wonted 
to  older  ways  and  ideals,  found  themselves 
at  last  lagging  superfluous  on  the  boards  or 
else  under  the  stern  necessity  of  reconstruct- 


The  Tentative  Period  77 

ing  technic  and  ideals  to  suit  an  altered  age? 
We  can  without  exaggeration  claim  that  we 
have  now  a  definite  school  of  American  play 
wrights;  a  school  young  but  lusty,  pros 
perous,  full  of  promise.  But  this  could  never 
have  been,  had  it  not  been  for  the  work, 
tentative,  experimental  and  largely  lonely, 
of  many  an  unnamed  early  writer,  and  later 
dramatists  like  Boucicault,  Mackaye,  Boker 
and  still  others;  and  unless  Bronson  Howard, 
at  a  time  when  it  was  a  daring  thing  to  do 
so,  had  turned  from  journalism  and,  first 
among  the  dramatic  writers  in  this  country, 
devoted  himself  with  a  single-eyed  devotion 
throughout  the  rest  of  his  life  to  the  writing 
of  plays,  plays  that  were  to  found  an  Amer 
ican  school. 


IV 


TRUTH     (f\ 


THAT  the  late  American  drama  should  re 
produce  the  native  life  with  more  of  verity 
than  ever  before,  is  quite  what  the  general 
tendency  of  modern  letters  would  lead  us  to 
expect.  The  desire  to  get  closer  to  the  fact 
and  give  the  value  of  verisimilitude  to  the 
picture,  has  been  the  dominant  literary  mood 
of  our  generation.  American  drama  reflects 
it  as  part  of  modern  drama.  And  the  drama 
everywhere,  which  is  now  striving  for  this 
verity,  has  lagged  behind  the  novel  in  this 
stern  insistence  upon  truth  and  has  only  re 
cently  taken  the  cue  from  fiction.  Mr.  Ber 
nard  Shaw's  description  of  the  stage  as  the 
"last  sanctuary  of  unreality/'  was  hardly  un 
deserved  a  few  years  ago,  although  it  is  fast 
becoming  less  applicable. 

Indeed,  the  fact  that  the  native  playwrights 
are    turning   by    preference    to    home-given 

78 


Truth  79 

themes  and  no  longer  feel  that  a  foreign  mo 
tive  spells  success,  is  in  itself  part  of  the 
movement  toward  the  real;  since  a  recogni 
tion  of  the  Here  and  the  Now,  as  offering 
worthy  material  for  dramatic  treatment,  is  a 
protest  against  the  idea  that  because  a  thing 
is  remote  in  time  or  place  and  dim  to  the  eye 
it  must  for  that  reason  be  more  promising  for 
imaginative  handling. 

The  stricter  conventions  of  the  stage,  for 
one  thing,  have  favored  unreality.  Then, 
too,  the  mixed  character  of  the  theatre  audi 
ence  has  made  it  more  insistent  not  only  on  a 
conventional  presentation  of  humanity  but 
especially  on  what  is  commonly  called  a 
pleasant  ending.  The  thoughtful  novel- 
reader  has  long  had  the  opportunity  to  see 
life  in  its  true  physiognomy,  even  if  the 
features  look  grim;  yet  that  type  of  auditor 
has  been  in  a  sad  minority  in  the  playhouse. 
Moreover,  the  same  person  would  become 
more  primitive  when  once  he  was  merged  in 
a  theatre  crowd  and  saw  the  stage  picture 
through  the  eyes  of  others,  as  well  as  through 


80  The  New  American  Drama 

his  own.  As  Coleridge  has  acutely  expressed 
it,  when  once  he  became  auditor,  he  engaged 
in  that  "willing  suspension  of  disbelief" 
which  is  for  the  dramatist  an  ideal  state  of 
mind  for  the  reception  of  the  dramatic  mes 
saged  It  is  rapidly  coming  to  the  point,  in 
our  drama,  when  the  dramatist  who  deals 
with  contemporary  life  (as  he  now  so  often 
does),  and  wishes  to  secure  his  effect,  must 
not  depart  far  in  his  presentation  from  such 
a  marshalling  of  events  and  such  display  of 
psychology  as  shall  be  credibly  within  the 
cognizance  of  the  audience.  The  possible 
drawback  in  this  for  imaginative  and  poetic 
delineation  is  obvious;  but  that  there  is  ad 
vantage,  too,  cannot  be  gainsaid.  Playmak- 
ers  now  feel  the  compulsion  to  give  the  effect 
of  reality  in  environment  and  the  denotenents 
external  and  internal  of  character.  The  folk 
of  the  play  must  dress,  speak  and  act  as 
those  given  human  beings  would  under  the 
circumstances.  More  latitude  is,  of  course, 
conceded  to  dramatic  forms  like  farce,  melo 
drama,  and  poetic  tragedy;  but  even  there,  a 


Truth 81 

certain  logic  of  cause  and  effect  is  more  and 
more  demanded.  Even  if  the  premises  are 
unlikely  or  impossible,  the  handling  of  the 
precedent  conditions  must  be  logical  and 
illusion  thereby  secured. 

Certain  dramatists  of  the  day  seem  espe 
cially  to  illustrate  this  insistence  upon  truth 
of  atmosphere  and  detail.  Beyond  question, 
the  pioneer  in  its  initiation  was  Herne,  whose 
labor  in  blazing  the  trail  for  coming  workers 
has  been  described.  In  his  latest  efforts, 
Steele  Mackaye  was  also  useful;  while  How 
ard,  as  he  developed  and  grew  bolder  with 
the  progress  of  the  realistic  school,  con 
tributed  markedly  in  such  dramas  as  "The 
Henrietta"  and  "Shenandoah,"  respectively 
a  play  of  business  life  and  a  play  of  the  Civil 
War. 

To  get  a  measure  of  his  growth  one  may 
compare  his  early  farce,  "Saratoga,"  prac 
tically  contemporaneous  with  Robertson's 
"Caste,"  with  his  latest  plays,  "Aristocracy" 
and  "Kate."  The  romantic  comedy  of  the 
home,  "The  Banker's  Daughter,"  led  on  to 


82  The  New  American  Drama 

"Young  Mrs.  Winthrop,"  pleasantly  remem 
bered  in  the  old  Lyceum  Theatre  days;  and 
the  charm  of  "Old  Love  Letters,"  with  its 
brevity  of  form  that  looks  forward  to  the 
present,  may  still  be  felt.  Mr.  Clayton  Ham 
ilton  has  said  of  him  that  "he  had  no  mes 
sage,"  which  is  true  enough.  But  he  was  a 
worthy  pioneer  in  the  handling  of  native  ma 
terial  and  never  forgot  the  primary  business 
of  giving  amusement;  and  his  eye  was  keen 
to  detect  the  unused  opportunity.  All  the 
credit  of  one  who  pointed  the  path  belongs 
to  this  vigorous  playwright,  who  imparted  to 
his  stage  stories  something  of  the  flavor  of 
letters,  and  interwove  the  complications  of 
domestic  life  with  those  of  society,  politics 
and  business. 

Close  on  the  heels  of  men  like  Mackaye 
and  Howard,  come  the  veterans,  Gillette  and 
Thomas,  in  the  making  of  plays  which,  while 
lacking  thesis  and  aiming  above  all  at  story 
value,  have  seized  with  zest  on  enjoyable  as 
pects  of  the  native  life.  Their  contribution 
has  thus  been  helpful  in  the  extreme,  and  in- 


Truth  83 

fluential  in  demonstrating  the  feasibility  of 
a  professional  devotion  to  such  motives  and 
ideals.  Both  these  men  have,  by  dint  of  a 
long  and  steady  application  of  their  talents 
to  the  business  of  dramaturgy,  become  skilled 
craftsmen,  able  to  extract  from  a  story  every 
ounce  of  its  dramatic  value,  and  expert  in 
the  details  of  that  difficult  endeavor.  Think 
ing  of  the  two  together  for  a  moment,  it  may 
be  said  that  both  have  shown  considerable 
range  in  subject  matter,  Mr.  Thomas,  per 
haps,  extending  his  survey  more  broadly; 
giving  us  the  South  in  "Alabama,"  the  West 
in  "Arizona,"  New  York  in  "The  Witching 
Hour,"  "As  a  Man  Thinks,"  and  many  more 
plays,  and  laying  tribute  on  Europe  in  such 
pieces  as  "The  Harvest  Moon"  and  "The 
Model."  Mr.  Gillette,  on  the  other  hand, 
who  has  had  the  privilege  to  write  plays  for 
his  own  impersonation,  has  had  to  yield  less 
to  the  temptation  to  trim  his  drama  to  suit 
others;  and  has  seemed  to  find  his  main 
strength  in  the  war  motive,  as  such  admirable 
military  plays  as  "Held  by  the  Enemy"  and 


84  The  New  American  Drama 

"Secret  Service"  testify.  To  say  this  is  not 
to  overlook  the  finished  technic  and  genuine 
invention  which  go  to  explain  the  unqualified 
success  of  so  legitimate  a  melodramatic  work 
as  "Sherlock  Holmes."  Of  late,  Mr.  Thomas 
has  shown  some  inclination  to  introduce  ele 
ments  of  thought  and  thesis  over  and  above 
story  into  his  work.  "The  Witching  Hour" 
is  the  best  illustration.  One  who  is  in  the 
fifties  can  scarcely  avoid  a  philosophy  of 
life,  and  when  highly  successful,  can  indulge 
the  luxury  on  the  stage;  and  this  dramatist 
has  added  to  his  appeal  by  the  introduction 
of  stimulating  current  thought  into  the 
framework  of  stage  story.  Yet  he  has  shown 
his  craft  by  cannily  preserving  the  essentials 
of  good  dramatic  story-telling.  Thus,  into 
"The  Witching  Hour,"  which  is  in  outline 
and  on  the  surface  simply  a  good  old-fash 
ioned  melodrama  with  pleasant  alleviations 
of  humor  and  sentiment,  he  has  injected  the 
prevalent  interest  in  psychic  phenomena  and 
secured  thereby  a  distinctly  novel  scene  a 
faire.  This  welcome  infusion  of  theory  or 


Truth 85 

thesis  is  less  evident  in  "As  a  Man  Thinks." 
And,  indeed,  it  may  be  said  of  Mr.  Tnomas' 
latest  work  in  general  that  its  alleged  philo 
sophic  content  has  been  exaggerated  and  that 
only  in  a  very  mild  way  can  he  be  called  a 
dramatist  of  the  theatre  of  ideas.  The 
handling  of  the  theme  implied  in  the  title 
"As  a  Man  Thinks,"  for  example,  seems 
rather  half-hearted,  and  the  author's  opin 
ion  on  marital  relations  evokes  a  smile  in 
these  days  of  militant  feminism.  In  the  later 
piece,  "Mere  Man,"  too,  the  view  of  Woman 
Suffrage  is  such  as  to  give  an  interesting  play, 
that  lacks  unity  of  purpose  apparently,  in 
tellectually  an  old-fashioned  air.  His  chief 
value  would  seem  to  be  in  his  crisp  tech- 
nic,  his  sympathetic  handling  of  American 
types,  and  the  frequent  wit  of  his  dialogue. 
Perhaps,  when  his  work  is  reviewed  as  a 
whole,  and  already  it  mounts  up  to  over 
twenty  plays,  it  will  be  found  that  a  drama 
like  "Arizona,"  relishably  native,  and  full  of 
wholesome  excitement,  with  its  crying  up  of 
the  American  qualities  of  readiness,  humor 


86  The  New  American  Drama 

and  manly  sentiment,  the  action  played 
against  a  background  of  the  great  western 
spaces,  will  best  sum  up  his  virtues.  It  is  a 
pity  that  so  few  of  Mr.  Thomas's  plays  have 
been  published,  in  these  days  when  publish 
ing  has  become  so  common,  thereby  making 
impossible  that  careful  examination  which 
their  merit  frequently  deserves. 

This  is  still  truer  of  Mr.  Gillette,  no  one 
of  whose  dramas  have  appeared  in  print,  but 
his  excellences  are,  in  the  main,  those  that, 
in  the  familiar  phrase,  get  across  the  foot 
lights.  Like  Thomas,  a  finished  craftsman, 
with  thirty  years  or  more  of  theatre  experi 
ence,  as  actor,  manager  and  playwright,  be 
hind  him,  he  is  something  more:  a  writer  for 
the  stage  who  sees  life  with  a  sort  of  laconic 
clear-sightedness,  tempered  by  a  humor  that 
is  distinctive  and  delightful.  In  estimating 
his  military  dramas,  it  must  be  remembered 
that  they  hold  the  primacy  in  the  point  of 
time,  although  Belasco,  Howard,  and  others 
have  essayed  the  subject  with  no  little  suc 
cess.  It  is  likely,  too,  that  in  the  final  reck- 


Truth  87 

oning,  comedies  like  "A  Legal  Wreck," 
"Too  Much  Johnson,"  an  adaptation  like 
"The  Private  Secretary,"  and  so  charming  a 
light  comedy  as  "Clarice,"  with  its  final 
touch  of  melodrama,  will  come  into  the  de 
cision.  Nor  should  the  fact  that  "Sherlock 
Holmes"  is,  in  a  sense,  a  free  handling  of 
material  drawn  from  fiction,  blind  one  to 
its  originality  in  the  treatment  of  the  story, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  technical  tours  de  force 
with  which  it  bristles. 

Yet,  when  all  is  said,  there  is  a  vague  feel 
ing  of  dissatisfaction  in  respect  of  Mr.  Gil 
lette's  work.  With  his  independent  view 
point  and  professional  skill,  we  have  hoped 
for  more  work  that  expressed  the  maturity 
of  his  thought.  There  is  something  elusive 
in  his  personality;  he  has  never  fully  re 
vealed  himself  in  his  dramatic  activity.  The 
failure  of  his  latest  (and  possibly  last)  play, 
"Electricity,"  was  regrettable,  for  it  bore 
evidences  of  that  more  vital  interpretation  of 
modern  problems  which  gives  drama  sig 
nificance. 


The  New  American  Drama 


Clyde  Fitch,  a  somewhat  younger  man 
than  these  others,  though  passing  first  from 
life's  stage,  occupies  a  position  among  our 
playwrights  that  is  distinctive,  if  not  unique. 
Most  definitely  of  his  generation,  he  essayed 
to  do  something  that  is  single  in  effect,  while 
voluminous  in  content.  Fifty  plays  for  one 
who  numbered  less  than  fifty  years  is  cer 
tainly  a  remarkable  record.  But  it  would 
be  the  cause  of  suspicion  rather  than  im 
portant  for  us  here,  were  it  not  that  Fitch's 
work  has  some  qualities  deserving  of  respect 
ful  attention.  Moreover,  in  his  case,  we  have 
the  advantage  of  possessing  a  good  number 
of  the  dramas  in  book  form.  To  the  funda 
mental  test  of  playing  value,  we  can,  in  re 
spect  of  some  half  a  dozen  pieces  or  more, 
add  the  other  test  of  a  thoughtful  reading, 
which,  after  all,  helps  to  make  the  reader 
aware  of  those  constructive  virtues  as  well  as 
virtues  of  artistic  detail,  likely  to  be  lost 
when  the  drama  is  only  heard.  It  is,  in  the 
long  run,  as  unfair  to  a  drama  which  is  a 
work  of  art  to  see  it  without  a  reading,  as  it 


TrutK  89 

is  to  read  it  without  seeing  it  on  the  boards 
— in  spite  of  all  the  practical  opinions  to  the 
contrary. 

Mr.  Fitch's  distinctive  contribution  to 
our  stage  seems  to  me  to  lie  in  his  power  of 
seizing  upon  certain  phases  of  city  life  which 
have  to  do  with  the  prosperous  commercial 
ism  resulting  in  a  certain  kind  of  domestic 
menage:  the  family  well-to-do,  pleasure-lov 
ing,  wonted  to  luxury,  touched  with  the  fever 
of  getting  and  spending.  With  genuine  ob 
servation,  a  sympathetic  feeling  for  these 
types  and  an  instinct  for  setting  them  in  novel 
situations,  Mr.  Fitch  has  thus,  within  his 
limits,  been  a  social  historian.  He  has  in 
jured  his  work  again  and  again  by  the  intro 
duction  of  forced  effects  of  melodrama,  not 
seldom  in  bad  taste,  or  by  sacrificing  psy 
chology  for  the  sake  of  ending.  But  in  the 
best  examples,  like  "The  Climbers,"  "Cap 
tain  Jinks  of  the  Horse  Marines,"  and,  above 
all  else,  "The  Truth,"  indubitably  his  finest 
play,  he  has  carried  the  idea  logically 
through  nor  conceded  too  much  to  popular 


90  The  New  American  Drama 

desire.  Several  of  his  dramas,  of  which  "The 
Stubbornness  of  Geraldine"  is  one,  have 
also  secured  amusing  material  in  the  comedy 
of  the  American  Abroad,  the  possibilities 
of  which  in  fiction  by  James  and  in  drama 
by  Howard,  had  earlier  been  demonstrated. 
The  best  of  this  type,  and  a  play  standing 
high  in  the  work  of  Fitch,  is  "The  Girl  with 
the  Green  Eyes,"  in  which  the  scene  in  the  art 
museum  is  perhaps  as  good  broad  comedy  as 
he  ever  wrote.  "The  Moth  and  the  Flame" 
in  one  scene  is  a  regrettable  example  of  the 
author's  tendency  to  sacrifice  to  coarse  theat- 
ricalism.  "The  Cowboy  and  the  Lady," 
agreeable  though  it  be,  may  stand  for  an 
illustration  of  the  made-to-order  drama  to 
which  Fitch  too  often  yielded.  It  would  be 
foolish  and  unfair  to  depreciate  the  excel 
lence  of  character  drawing  and  finish  of  dia 
logue  with  which  this  playmaker  has  en 
riched  his  social  pictures;  to  say  nothing  of 
his  skill  in  the  fresh  invention  of  such  scenes 
as  that  which  opens  "The  Climbers." 

If  we  hesitate  to  call  Fitch  a  dramatist 


Truth  91 

rather  than  a  playmaker,  it  is  because  he 
does  not  seem  to  be  thinking  fundamentally 
about  life.  His  dramas  interest  as  surface 
manifestations,  as  character  portrayal,  effec 
tive  situation  and  good  story.  But  they  most 
often  disappoint  us  as  a  whole,  all  the  more 
because  they  are  so  good  in  spots,  in  details. 
And  this  is  because  one  does  not  feel  implicit 
in  them  that  comment  upon  the  human  case 
and  that  interpretation  of  man  which  the 
world  has  always  found  in  dramatists  to 
whom  a  lasting  place  has  been  awarded. 
Fitch's  pieces  are  skilfully  told  stage  stories, 
having  a  definite  value  as  social  documents, 
and  that  is  much;  but  not  enough,  one  feels, 
to  give  him  the  position  which  at  times  he 
so  teasingly  suggests  he  might  attain. 

An  excellent  example  of  the  difference  I 
have  in  mind  is  the  author's  "The  City," 
loudly  hailed  as  his  greatest  play  when 
posthumously  produced.  An  exceptionally 
strong  drama  in  the  technical  sense,  it  un 
doubtedly  is;  the  obligatory  scene,  to  adopt 
Mr.  Archer's  phrasing  of  the  French  term, 


92  The  New  American  Drama 

can  safely  be  relied  upon  in  the  theatre  for 
half  a  dozen  curtain  calls.  Yet  it  is  a  coup  de 
theatre,  rather  than  a  great  scene  in  the 
higher  sense.  It  is  an  attack  upon  the  nerves 
rather  than  an  appeal  to  the  intellect  or  soul. 
It  is  far  inferior  for  this  reason  to  the  cen 
tral  scene  in  Thomas's  "The  Witching 
Hour."  Moreover,  "The  City"  starts  out  to 
be  a  stimulating  discussion  of  the  relative 
values  of  town  and  country  life  seen  in  their 
effect  upon  a  certain  family  which  begins 
in  the  one  and  ends  in  the  other;  the  title, 
in  fact,  implies  it.  But  when  once  Fitch 
has  knitted  his  threads  into  the  third-act 
strand,  he  is  tempted  away  from  the  original 
theme  into  the  brutal  melodrama  of  a  scene 
which  from  the  mere  theatric  standpoint  is 
the  whole  purpose  of  the  play.  And  so  his 
promise  is  broken  and  higher  unity  de 
stroyed  for  the  sake  of  a  bit  of  effectivism. 
Artistically,  therefore,  "The  City"  is  to  be 
rated  far  below  a  play  like  "The  Truth," 
which,  I  believe,  will  eventually  be  placed 
at  the  head  of  all  of  Fitch's  work.  It  is  not 


Truth  93 

only  sound  psychologically  and  brilliantly 
fine  in  characterization,  but  of  admirably 
cumulative  constructive  skill,  and  the  whole 
is  bathed  in  a  sort  of  larger  sympathy  not 
often  found  in  this  playwright,  and  suggest 
ing  his  power  to  leave  us  drama  not  only  of 
good  technical  accomplishment,  but  inter 
pretive  significance.  His  "Nathan  Hale" 
and  "Barbara  Frietchie"  suggest  that  with 
higher  aims  he  might  have  worthily  met  the 
severe  demands  of  romance  and  tragedy; 
"Beau  Brummel,"  early  in  his  career,  in  which 
he  had  the  assistance  of  Mansfield,  hinted 
at  a  talent  for  historical  painting.  Fitch 
wrote  too  much  and  too  frequently  under 
practical  pressure  to  order.  But  as  it  is, 
three  or  four  of  his  dramas  will  always  be 
chosen  to  represent  our  achievement  in  the 
realistic  painting  of  certain  social  moods  of 
the  day,  set  in  an  environment  of  the  New 
York  of  the  socially  ambitious  and  the  idle 
rich. 

To  consider  other  of  our  dramatic  writers 
whose  aim   is  to  make  acting  plays  which 


94  The  New  American  Drama 

shall  truthfully  present  aspects  of  the  con 
temporary  life,  is  to  confront  a  welter  of 
names,  each  season  bringing  candidates  of 
promise  and  almost  every  month  some  new 
play  that  gives  the  open-minded  critic  pause, 
as  he  wonders  if  it  be  not  only  new  but  sig 
nificant,  a  presage  for  the  future.  A  few 
elders  detach  themselves  from  the  crowd. 
One  such  is  David  Belasco,  whose  skill  in 
stagecraft  and  success  in  all  that  has  to  do 
with  stage  production  has  made  him  easily 
the  doyen  in  this  aspect  of  theatre  activity. 
Yet,  in  the  long  list  of  dramas  with  which  he 
has  been  associated  as  author,  adapter  or 
stage  manager,  whose  deft  hand  has  shaped 
and  set  the  play  to  its  advantage,  very  few 
can  lay  claim  to  serious  regard.  Perhaps 
"The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm"  comes  closest 
to  justifying  the  assertion  that  Mr.  Belasco 
is  more  than  an  example  of  modern  wiz- 
»  ardry  in  stage  conductment.  Its  use  of  the 
spiritual  is  effective  and  in  these  days  of  the 
psychic,  it  attracts  the  same  sort  of  interest 
which  was  aroused  by  Mr.  Thomas's  "The 


Truth 95 

Witching  Hour."  Nor,  in  the  hands  of  so 
capable  a  player  as  David  Warfield,  is  there 
an  offensive  suggestion  of  trick  in  the  details. 
The  story  may  be  taken  as  a  legitimate  and 
pleasing  allegory  of  human  influence  beyond 
the  grave  and  the  incidental  realism  in  the 
familiar  Belasco  manner  is  not  a  matter  of 
reproach.  It  is  rare,  however,  that  this  mas 
ter  of  theatric  effects  treats  life  in  its  essen 
tial  instead  of  superficial  relations  in  such 
wh-'e  as  to  give  the  auditor  the  sense  that  he 
sincerely  cares,  and  would  interpret  as  well 
as  show.  Miss  Bradley's  "The  Governor's 
Lady"  contained  an  excellent  idea  in  the  wife 
whose  husband  had  socially  outgrown  her; 
yet  it  is  the  replica  of  a  Childs'  restaurant 
which  makes  the  meretricious  appeal  of  nov 
elty,  and  there  we  get  the  Belasco  touch.  It  is 
probable  that  in  the  minds  of  that  careless 
public  which  really  supports  the  playhouse, 
such  plays  as  "The  Rose  of  the  Rancho"  and 
"The  Case  of  Becky"  bear  quite  as  truly  the 
Belasco  stamp  as  any  of  his  own  creation. 
Why  not,  when  the  bill-boards  are  as  likely 


96  The  New  American  Drama 

as  not  innocent  of  the  authors'  names,  and 
the  audience  as  it  leaves  the  theatre  is  vocal 
over  the  marvels  of  scene  manipulation?  To 
get  a  sharp  sense  of  the  shortcomings  of 
this  brilliant  theatre  man,  one  has  but  to 
compare  him  with  foreign  directors  like 
Reinhardt,  Barker  and  Brahm.  With  them 
and  their  kind  we  get,  besides  craft,  vision, 
and  along  with  the  appeal  to  the  senses, 
ideals  of  the  highest. 

While  Charles  Klein  has  disappointed  us 
of  late  by  the  introduction  of  clap-trap  ele 
ments  into  his  work,  praise  is  due  him  as 
one  of  the  first  writers  for  the  stage  to  utilize 
the  theme  of  business  life  for  purposes  of 
dramatic  story-telling:  a  theme  which  Bron- 
son  Howard  declared  a  generation  ago  was 
properly  to  be  the  dominant  American  mo 
tive.  He  illustrated  the  statement  with  so 
sterling  a  play  as  "The  Henrietta" ;  and  much 
later  dramas,  of  which,  English  or  foreign, 
Mirabeau's  "Business  Is  Business"  and 
Sowerby's  "Rutherford  and  Son,"  are  ex 
amples,  indicate  that  this  is  more  than  an 


Truth  97 

American  tendency:  being,  indeed,  modern. 
But  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett  never  said  a  truer 
thing  about  this  country  than  when  he  re 
marked  on  the  romantic,  all  but  lyric  regard 
with  which  American  men  view  their  busi 
ness.  And  something  of  this, — business  as 
an  object  of  worship  or  an  expression  of 
power, — has  begun  to  get  into  some  of  our 
playmaking.  Whatever  the  demerits  of  a 
play  like  "The  Lion  and  the  Mouse,"  it  may 
justly  be  commended  for  the  use  of  such 
a  motive  in  a  successful  way:  the  tyranny 
of  finance  in  relation  to  human  lives  is 
strikingly  exhibited  with  palpable  conces 
sions  to  public  taste  in  the  particulars  of 
character  drawing  and  conclusion.  Nor 
should  it  be  denied  to  the  universally  liked 
"Music  Master,"  that  a  fundamental  idea, 
that  of  the  relation  of  father  and  daughter, 
is  seized  upon  and  made  lovably  sympa 
thetic  in  a  setting  which  has  the  unconven 
tional  charm  of  art  and  poverty  and  irre 
sponsible  youth.  The  personal  triumph  of 
Warfield, — like  that  of  Jefferson  in  "Rip 


The  New  American  Drama 


Van  Winkle," — confuses  the  issue,  but  must 
not  blind  us  to  the  independent  value  of  the 
drama.  "The  Third  Degree,"  too,  melodra 
matic  in  both  conception  and  treatment — 
and  there  is  nothing  against  melodrama  ex 
cept  the  monstrosities  perpetrated  in  its  name 
— showed  a  welcome  instinct  to  use  the  fresh 
and  picturesque  material  offered  by  the  un 
derworld  of  City  life — a  range  of  subject- 
matter  now  giving  alarming  evidences  of 
being  overworked.  But  with  another  drama 
of  business  life,  "The  Gamblers,"  one  noted 
with  perturbation  that  life  was  being  wrested 
from  truth  for  the  sake  of  stage  effect.  Ex 
ternally,  here  was  admirable  realism;  few 
plays  in  the  first  act  get  a  firmer  grip  on  an 
audience.  But  the  deeper  truth,  which 
means  the  faithful  portrayal  of  character 
acted  upon  by  circumstances,  is  plainly  vio 
lated  when  the  sympathy  is  so  shamelessly 
thrown  toward  a  dishonest  man  whose  kind 
ness  to  his  father  covers  all  his  sin;  and  a 
government  official  who  is  simply  doing  his 
unpleasant  duty  is  presented  for  detestation. 


Truth  99 

The  final  bestowal  of  rewards  can  but  make 
the  judicious  grieve.  There  is  in  such  a 
drama — and  later  work  by  Mr.  Klein  pro 
vokes  the  same  thought — a  suggestion  of  the 
use  of  American  life  for  its  tempting  con 
trasts  of  high  color  and  vivid  vibration, 
without  the  reflection  as  to  its  meaning  so 
desirable  in  a  play-maker  who  would  do 
more  than  offer  temporary  entertainment. 
Let  it  be  said  of  Mr.  Klein,  emphatically, 
that  the  entertainment  is  always  there;  he 
does  not  make  the  mistake  of  being  thought 
ful  at  the  expense  of  amusement. 

Among  the  younger  men, — and  like  these 
others  in  the  honest  endeavor  to  depict  with 
some  degree  of  truth  the  aspects  of  our  life 
and  mayhap  to  comment  upon  the  passing 
show, — Edward  Sheldon  has  special  signifi 
cance.  Still  a  very  young  man,  Mr.  Shel 
don  has  written  half  a  dozen  or  more  plays 
which  for  variety,  vigor  and  a  kind  of  exu 
berance  which  implies  the  tentative  period 
of  experiment,  seem  to  me  big  with  promise. 
From  the  first,  he  has  been  a  man  of  the  the- 


too         The  New  American  Drama 

atre  in  his  feeling  for  situation  and  the  in 
stinct  for  effects.  There  is  nothing  uncertain 
in  his  elan  and  the  largeness  of  his  handling: 
his  faults  are  not  those  of  the  niggard  or  the 
too  subtle.  His  themes  are  wholesomely 
American — naturally,  since  they  interest  him 
most — they  show  the  dramatist's  broad  sym 
pathies,  his  hearty  liking  for  the  unconven 
tional  corner  life  of  social  estrays  or  for 
the  more  central  scenes  of  national  history. 
Already,  he  has  sounded  serious  if  but  oc 
casional  notes  of  the  earnest  student  of 
society,  and  the  most  sensible  prophecy  of 
him  at  present  is  to  say  that  he  may  do 
notable  things  in  any  one  of  half  a  dozen 
directions.  Thus,  "Salvation  Nell,"  gave  a 
graphic  sense  of  the  street  work  in  religion 
which  is  perhaps  too  familiar  visually  to  be 
comprehended  by  many  who  pass  by  on  the 
other  side.  "The  Nigger,"  while  failing  to 
be  a  great  play,  was  certainly  a  strong  and 
enjoyable  one,  an  honest  and  interesting  at 
tempt  to  display  phases  of  the  Southern  prob 
lem.  "The  Boss"  painted  the  ward  poli- 


Truth  '":  "       -K>I 

tician  in  a  manner  to  make  us  see  his  virtues 
• — his  vices  receive  full  attention  nowadays. 
Both  "Egypt"  and  "The  Princess  Zim-Zam" 
testify  to  Mr.  Sheldon's  boyish  zest  in  Bo 
hemian  types,  and  though  both  were  failures, 
they  were  by  no  means  lacking  in  the  virile 
traits  we  are  coming  to  associate  with  one 
who,  from  his  training,  can  be  counted  on  to 
get  those  literary  and  constructive  elements 
into  his  work  which  must  be  reckoned  with 
in  the  final  estimate.  Personally,  I  feel  grate 
ful  to  Mr.  Sheldon  for  two  acts  of  "The 
Princess  Zim-Zam."  It  is  much  to  be 
hoped  that  the  publication  of  one  of  his 
dramas  will  lead  to  that  of  others,  in  order  to 
a  further  study  of  his  method  and  quality.  In 
"The  High  Road,"  Mr.  Sheldon  again  uses 
for  his  inspiration  one  of  the  larger  manifes 
tations  of  national  life  as  it  touches  private 
fates:  his  material  seems  less  distinctively 
his  than  with  other  plays  from  his  hand,  but 
as  an  essay  in  dramaturgy,  it  marks  progress 
in  his  art.  The  later  play,  "Romance,"  is 
mentioned  in  another  connection. 


102          The  New  American  Drama 

In  short,  here  is  a  young  man  under  thirty, 
who  has  invention,  the  dramatic  sense,  a 
trained  technic,  instinctive  Americanism  and 
the  courage  of  his  convictions  as  to  subject- 
matter.  He  gives  the  impression  of  wanting 
to  please  himself,  because  he  is  deeply  in 
terested  in  life  and  proposes  to  express  his 
reaction  to  it.  The  prayer  to  offer  up  for 
him,  therefore,  is  that  he  may  not  be  induced 
by  popularity  to  trim  for  manager,  actor  or 
public. 

Had  Eugene  Walter  written  nothing  else 
but  "The  Easiest  Way,"  he  would  not  be 
altogether  negligible  in  our  dramatic  record. 
It  was  a  play  to  seize  and  hold  the  attention 
of  a  general  audience;  and  to  make  the 
thoughtful  tense.  The  story  was  skilfully 
graduated  to  a  crisis  that  was  at  once  life 
and  art.  It  was  a  brave,  sincere  study  of  the 
type  of  woman  who  is  light  but  lovable,  weak 
rather  than  bad;  her  history  is  carried 
through  logically,  with  no  paltering  of  con 
cession  to  popular  demand.  And  the  drama 
radiates  that  kind  of  tolerant  understanding 


Truth  103 

which  is  neither  mushy  sentimentality  nor 
shallow  indifference.  Hence,  it  is  not  only 
Mr.  Walter's  most  important  contribution 
so  far,  but  one  of  the  very  few  significant 
American  dramas  of  the  past  decade  in  the 
field  of  realism.  Had  the  author  maintained 
this  level,  he  would  be  in  every  sense  a 
leader.  The  resemblance  of  "The  Easiest 
Way"  to  Pinero's  "Iris"  in  framework  may 
be  pointed  out,  without  any  wish  to  detract 
from  its  essential  originality. 

This  playwright  has,  however,  hardly  kept 
the  pace.  The  preceding  drama,  "Paid  in 
Full,"  with  its  melodramatic  scene  which  was 
out  of  key  with  the  remainder  of  the  play,  be 
spoke  the  writer's  interest  in  the  exhibition 
of  every-day,  unideal  metropolitan  social  con 
ditions:  the  small  clerk  in  his  sordid  setting, 
the  kind  of  thing  which  George  Gissing  did 
so  well  in  fiction.  That  such  a  work  could, 
contrary  to  expectation,  win  success,  sug 
gested  Mr.  Walter's  knack  for  catching  the 
accent  and  look  of  life  and  his  intention  of 
painting  in  unflattering  details.  The  spec- 


IO4         The  New  American  Drama 

tator  saw,  and  said:  "Yes,  it's  just  like  life," 
meaning  both  the  size  of  the  flat  and  the 
temptation  or  trial  which  such  life  brings 
the  occupants.  It  was  a  play  arousing  hope 
in  the  writer's  further  contribution.  "Fine 
Feathers"  can  be  appreciated  in  the  broad 
virility  of  its  handling  and  its  desire  to  pre 
sent  once  more  certain  familiar  complica 
tions  of  city  life  where  the  lure  of  money 
plays  havoc  with  human  fate.  But  in  this 
play,  efTectivism  appears  to  come  first,  and 
the  critic  asks  of  the  final  tragedy,  "Has 
it  the  same  ring  of  the  inevitable  which  made 
'The  Easiest  Way'?  "  At  present,  one  watches 
Mr.  Walter  with  both  hope  and  fear. 

Many  others  are  doing  work  which,  taken 
collectively,  deepens  the  impression  of  a 
broader,  freer  depiction  of  the  fascinatingly 
variant  phases  of  our  social  scene.  Perhaps, 
so  far,  polite  society  has  not  been  so  success 
fully  depicted  as  the  more  democratic  aspects. 
Yet  the  work  of  Messrs.  Langdon  Mitchell, 
Harry  Smith  and  J.  M.  Patterson  in  such 
dramas  as  "The  New  York  Idea,"  "Mrs.  Bum- 


Truth  105 

stead  Leigh,"  and  "A  Little  Brother  of  the 
Rich"  are  examples,  where  more  might  be 
adduced,  of  studies  which  show  real  observa 
tion  of  the  polite  and  often  unpleasant  phases 
of  life  in  the  centres. 

Mr.  Broadhurst's  praiseworthy  effort  to 
paint  some  of  the  piquant  conditions  and 
types  of  local  politics  in  "The  Man  of  the 
Hour,"  the  response  to  which  was  so  cordial, 
has  been  extended  to  include  a  piece  like 
"Bought  and  Paid  For,"  where  the  discussion 
of  the  married  problem  reminds  us  of  Fitch, 
and  the  humor  gives  the  salt  which  savors 
what  otherwise  might  be  too  drastic  for  some. 
Mr.  Patterson's  study  of  newspaper  life, 
"The  Fourth  Estate,"  deserves  approval  for 
its  initial  intention  to  tell  the  truth  and  let 
the  ending  take  care  of  itself.  "Rebellion," 
too,  shows  an  admirable  desire  to  let  the 
logic  of  life  work  itself  out  in  story.  Clever 
farce,  sometimes  rising  to  a  true  comedy 
vein,  is  already  written  by  Rupert  Hughes, 
James  Forbes,  James  Montgomery,  Mrs. 
Rinehart,  Miss  Mayo,  Avery  Hopwood,  and 


106          The  New  American  Drama 

many  others,  writers  whose  technical  accom 
plishment  and  contact  with  reality  are  far  in 
advance  of  the  impossible  farcical  concoctions 
of  the  earlier  generation.  More  serious  work 
has  come  from  Mr.  Hughes,  who  is  capable 
of  much  if  he  be  not  deflected  from  his  best 
endeavor.  "The  Man  Between"  justifies  the 
statement.  Mr.  Buchanan's  "The  Cub"  was 
a  distinctly  promising  achievement  in  the  way 
of  satiric  comedy;  and  so  was  Mr.  Barry's 
"The  Upstart."  The  supercilious  mental  at 
titude  of  patronage  toward  farce  as  a  form 
is  to  be  deprecated.  There  is  nothing 
against  it,  if  it  be  not  unskilful  and  silly. 
It  can  be  included  in  our  enjoyment  of  the 
theatre  whenever  it  is  clean  and  well  done, 
for  it  implies  the  objective  treatment  of  the 
fun  of  life  expressed  in  the  complications  of 
circumstance,  character  being  subsidiary  to 
that  result.  Mr.  Channing  Pollock  has 
shown  an  expert  hand  in  dramatizations  of 
fiction  like  "The  Pit"  and  "In  the  Bishop's 
Carriage,"  and  his  "The  Little  Gray  Lady," 
to  mention  one  of  a  number  of  plays  clever 


Truth  107 

in  idea  or  keen  in  particulars  of  characteriza 
tion,  seemed  to  some  of  us  the  right  use  of 
excellent  material.  The  sympathetic  touch 
in  Edward  Peple's  "The  Prince  Chap"  and 
"The  Littlest  Rebel,"  is  used  in  the  service 
of  the  kind  of  truth-telling  which  includes 
a  feeling  for  the  romantic  possibilities  of  life. 
Mr.  J.  Hartley  Manners  is  exhibiting  a  sense 
of  stage  values  in  dramas  that  if  more  Ameri 
can  in  motive  might  enrich  the  native  study. 
The  popular  "Peg  o'  My  Heart,"  if  con 
ventional  in  conception,  lacks  neither  skill 
nor  unstrained  pleasantness  of  tone.  Mrs. 
Sutherland,  Beulah  Dix,  Martha  Morton, 
Grace  Furniss,  Marguerite  Merington,  Rida 
Johnson  Young  and  Rachel  Crothers  have 
done  work  of  varying  merit,  but  sometimes 
on  a  high  plane  of  craftsmanship,  the  fresh, 
first-hand  observation  in  Miss  Crothers's 
"Three  of  Us"  and  the  vital  feeling  in  "A 
Man's  World"  calling  for  special  mention. 

In  the  one-act  form,  the  cultivation  of 
which  is  now  rapidly  developing  in  this 
country,  nothing  better  has  been  done  than 


108          The  New  American  Drama 

Miss  Dix's  "Dramatic  Interludes."  Women, 
in  fact,  are  beginning  to  do  a  service  in 
drama  analogous  to  that  they  have  long  per 
formed  for  fiction :  namely,  to  bring  to  social 
observation  the  light  touch  and  the  surer 
knowledge  necessary  for  the  verity  of  the 
picture,  and  at  the  same  time,  to  command 
more  insight  into  the  psychology  of  the  sex. 
A  conservative  tendency,  natural  enough,  has 
often  checked  the  playwrights  among  them  in 
this  respect,  so  that  as  yet  they  have  not  risen 
to  their  full  opportunity. 

Those  veterans  of  fiction,  Messrs.  Wilson 
and  Tarkington,  have  brought  considerable 
technical  skill  and  a  pleasingly  romantic 
Americanism  to  the  stage,  and  their  humor  is 
delightful:  the  popular  "Man  from  Home," 
if  unfair  to  the  Europeans  who  serve  as  foils 
to  the  main  purpose  of  the  play,  hits  off  a 
certain  western  type  veraciously:  and  per 
haps  unwittingly  draws  the  attention  away 
from  other  dramas  of  a  finer  strain  by  these 
authors;— for  example,  "Your  Humble  Serv 
ant,"  Mr.  W.  C.  De  Mille,  with  his  Belasco 


Truth  109 

training,  has  in  the  romantic  "Strongheart" 
and  the  realistic  "The  Woman"  shown  a  sin 
cerity  along  with  skill  which  leads  one  to  have 
an  eye  on  all  he  does.  Certain  writers  of  un 
questionable  gift  and  other  than  commercial 
standards,  like  Knoblauch  and  Tully,  with 
their  tendency  toward  the  more  imaginative 
rendering  of  material,  may  be  studied  to 
more  advantage  in  a  chapter  devoted  to  such 
writers,  with  the  word  Romance  as  a  unifying 
denominator. 

The  lively  play-making  of  a  George  Ade 
may  not  be  entirely  overlooked  for  its  youth 
ful  dash  and  that  power  to  reproduce  homely 
scenes  and  characters  with  the  keen  apprecia 
tion  of  current  idiom:  nor  will  the  catholic- 
minded  observer  fail  to  note  that  in  his 
"Broadway  Jones"  Mr.  Cohan  gives  plain 
proof  of  adding  truth  of  observation  to  a 
recognized  faculty  for  dialogue  and  char 
acterization.  The  rapidity  of  his  movement 
makes  depth  out  of  the  question;  but  so 
far  as  he  goes,  it  were  foolish  to  refuse  to 
see  the  value  of  such  pictures.  With  Ameri- 


no         The  New  American  Drama 

canism  as  a  key-note,  indeed,  much  of  the 
work  that  at  first  blush  might  be  classed  as 
purely  ephemeral,  is  felt  to  have  its  merit  in 
chronicling  the  native  life.  Mr.  Howells 
had  the  courage  to  point  out  years  ago  the 
significance  in  this  way  of  Harrigan's  Irish 
plays.  In  the  same  way,  these  later  attempts 
should  be  considered  with  the  sympathy 
which  looks  forward  hopefully  to  a  genuine 
drama  in  the  United  States.  To  say  this, 
is  not  to  forget  that  we  must  have  the  chem 
ical  union  of  observation,  skill  and  imagina 
tion  in  dramatic  work  to  attain  the  highest 
results.  Yet  a  tentative  period  of  promise 
needs,  above  all,  sensible,  clear-sighted  en 
couragement. 

It  is  a  welcome  sign  that  managers  like 
Mr.  Miller,  Mr.  Brady  and  Mr.  Tyler  are 
discovering  young  dramatists  of  quality  and 
producing  their  work.  Such  far-sighted 
courage  will  appreciably  affect  the  situation 
in  time. 

Many  names,  but  no  movement?  Hardly 
a  fair  way  of  putting  it.  When  the  observer 
is  too  close  to  the  movement  he  may  not  see 


Truth n_i 

it  move.  At  any  rate,  tendencies  there  cer 
tainly  are, — and  this  of  closer  observation  and 
a  keener  conscience  in  the  study  of  humanity, 
is  obviously  among  them.  If  the  truth  with 
out  be  aimed  at  more  than  the  truth  within, 
and  the  realism  still  seem  shallow,  the  gain 
is  visible  to  the  watchful  eye. 

The  frequency  with  which  plays  now  get 
their  first  hearing  outside  New  York  is  also 
a  sign  of  health.  Only  a  few  years  ago,  the 
Metropolitan  dominance  in  this  matter  was 
absolute:  drama  was  made  or  marred  on 
Broadway.  But  success  that  began  in  Chi 
cago  or  Los  Angeles  comes  to  plays  like 
"The  Man  from  Home,"  "The  Melting 
Pot,"  "The  Bird  of  Paradise"  and  "Peg  o' 
My  Heart,"  and  this  suggestion  that  the 
country  at  large  has  an  opinion  and  that  it 
counts,  cannot  but  be  a  good  thing  for  our 
dramatic  interest.  Managers  are  in  the  way 
of  saying  that  worthy  drama  financially  un 
successful  in  the  Metropolis  made  up  its 
losses  in  the  large  western  cities.  No  one 
city  should  decide  the  fortunes  of  a  play. 

Such  recent  plays  as  "The  Havoc,"  "The 


112         The  New  American  Drama 

Rainbow"  and  "Kindling"  illustrate  the 
likelihood  that  each  season  may  bring  forth 
good  work  that  sends  the  critic  at  once  on 
the  author's  trail :  it  is  the  frequency  of  these 
arrivals  that  stimulates  the  critic. 

Again,  the  steadily  growing  unwillingness 
to  accept  foreign  plays  rather  than  those  of 
home  manufacture  —  not  so  much  because 
of  the  trade-mark  as  for  the  simple  reason 
that,  other  things  equal,  they  are  less  inter 
esting  or  less  understood — is  significant  and 
must  operate  to  aid  the  new  school.  To  be 
sure,  when  a  type  of  play  deeply  indigenous, 
like  that  shown  us  by  the  Irish  players,  visits 
these  shores,  it  awakens  the  interest  among  in 
telligent  theatregoers  that  its  beauty  and  sin 
cerity  deserve.  But  even  British  conditions 
differ  enough  from  our  own  to  make  the 
American  restive  and  not  too  cordial  to  Jones 
and  Pinero.  A  generation  ago,  he  meekly 
accepted  the  foreign  play.  But  now,  with 
a  sense  of  the  appealing  material  at  home, 
and  with  more  power  of  discrimination  be 
tween  the  offerings,  he  is  in  the  way  of  in- 


Truth  113 

difference  or  coldness  to  the  play  from 
abroad — unless  superlative  excellence  over 
rides  the  objections.  Dramatists  of  com 
manding  position — Jones,  Pinero,  Wilde, 
Galsworthy,  Bennett,  Shaw — receive  mod 
erate  applause,  if  they  attract  at  all:  if  Shaw 
be  an  exception  here,  so  he  is  in  everything. 
The  triangle  from  Paris  with  its  tiresome 
iteration  upon  the  one  jangling  note,  has 
plainly  ceased  to  allure.  Very  few  managers 
cling  to  the  mistaken  assumption  that  the 
success  of  Berlin,  Paris  or  London  means 
the  same  result  in  New  York.  We  are  in-  ,, 
terested  more  and  more  in  our  own  social 
conditions,  and  while  nothing  human  should 
be  alien  from  our  sympathy,  yet  there  is  no  7 
reason  why  we  should  be  stirred  to  the  depths 
by  a  stage  story  the  premises  to  which  are 
well-nigh  inconceivable.  Our  better  critics 
are  forming  the  habit  of  plain  speaking 
against  that  worst  result  of  foreign  importa 
tion,  the  attempt  to  doctor  plays  to  suit  what 
is  fondly  believed  to  be  American  taste.  The 
issue  being  amorphous  and  neuter,  the  audi- 


114          The  New  American  Drama 

ences  by  rejecting  such  spurious  stuff,  are 
giving  evidence  of  spontaneous  if  not  self- 
conscious  criticism.  The  very  life  of  a  play 
and  that  which  alone  gives  it  worth,  if  it 
have  any,  is  bound  up  with  its  local  color 
and  also  with  its  point  of  view.  To  change 
characters  or  scene  is  to  change  the  mean 
ing:  to  change  the  ending  is  total  damna 
tion,  ethical  and  artistic.  We  are  learning 
this  and  judging  drama  accordingly.  Au 
thors  who  permit  this  are  actuated  by  com 
mercial  motives,  tradesmen  not  artists.  Why 
should  Americans,  for  example,  be  asked  to 
take  great  interest  in  a  French  play  the  plot 
of  which  is  based  squarely  upon  the  mar 
riage  of  convention,  when  the  facts  do  not 
correspond  with  those  in  the  United  States 
at  all  as  they  are  known  to  the  public  which 
supports  the  playhouse  as  an  institution? 
Why  should  the  wife  in  Bataille's  "The 
Foolish  Virgin,"  who  guards  from  encroach 
ment  the  "sacred"  room  wherein  her  husband 
and  his  paramour  are  hiding,  be  an  heroic 
rather  than  a  ridiculous  figure  when  im- 


Truth  115 

ported  overseas?  Anatol,  no  doubt,  is  a 
recognizable  type — to  a  Little  Theatre  audi 
ence:  but  he  belongs  there.  Elizabeth 
Baker's  "Chains"  was  doctored  for  Ameri 
can  use:  Githa  Sowerby's  "Rutherford  and 
Son"  was  not.  They  happen  to  illustrate, 
synchronously,  the  right  and  wrong  way  in 
this  matter. 

This  is  not  to  deny  that  we  need  European 
drama  to  teach  us  many  things  and  that  this 
is  a  cosmopolitan  time  in  the  exchange  of 
dramatic,  as  other  commodities.  Drama  that, 
beyond  boundary  lines,  presents  the  bosom 
interests  of  mankind,  will  always  be  welcome. 
"The  Servant  in  the  House"  suffered  no 
harm  from  being  English  in  setting;  "The 
Typhoon"  got  its  hearing,  albeit  foreign  in 
locale  and  types.  Nevertheless,  drama,  like 
charity,  must  begin  at  home:  we  should  take 
our  technic  from  abroad,  not  our  themes. 
Not  otherwise  will  a  worthy  native  Theatre 
be  built  up. 

It  is  the  advantage  and  at  the  same  time 
the  pitfall  of  the  American  playwright  to- 


Ii6          The  New  American  Drama 

day  that  his  material  is  so  much  more  pic 
turesque  and  diverse  than  that  of  England, 
for  instance;  the  advantage  has  been  pointed 
out  by  Mr.  Jones,  Mr.  Bennett  and  other 
makers  of  literature.  But  the  temptation  is 
to  reproduce  the  surface  effects,  and  neglect 
the  more  thoughtful,  elusive  causes  behind 
the  passing  manifestation.  Mr.  Moses  in  his 
recent  book  on  "The  American  Dramatist" 
has  spoken  of  the  newspaper  quality  of  so 
much  of  the  work, — the  hunt  for  head-line 
subjects.  That  there  is  something  in  this, 
may  be  conceded.  But  it  must  not  be  over 
emphasized.  Sleazy  and  scamped  produc 
tion,  so  familiar  to  the  student  of  the  Eliza 
bethan  play,  is  sure  to  follow  the  practical 
pressure  put  upon  playwrights  to  supply  the 
too  numerous  theatres;  the  threat  of  the 
moving  pictures  too  is  likely  to  cheapen  the 
quality  of  the  work.  But  as  I  have  tried  to 
suggest  in  the  review  of  these  truth-tellers, 
our  dramatists  are  at  least  beginning  to  think 
for  themselves,  independently,  honestly.  It 
is  a  question  of  artistic  conscience,  and  in  any 


Truth  117 

age  or  land,  it  is  the  few  comparatively  who 
have  it.  Even  an  Arnold  Bennett  or  a  Ches 
terton,  it  may  be  guessed, — and  who  would 
deny  to  either  of  them  the  courage  of  his 
convictions  and  a  refusal  to  be  led? — may 
well  be  imagined  as  producing  more  "copy" 
than  if  the  editors  left  them  alone. 

The  sudden  shifts  and  startling  contrasts 
which  make  our  native  life  so  attractive  are 
naturally  first  exhibited  in  an  objective  form 
like  the  drama:  the  psychology  will  come — 
or  rather,  is  already  being  studied  and  of 
fered,  timidly  as  yet,  if  you  will.  It  is  wise 
to  bear  down  upon  this  with  a  sort  of  rea 
sonable  optimism  of  mood. 

And  the  skill  necessary  for  the  artistic 
representation  of  truth  in  the  native  field  is 
fast  being  acquired.  The  change  in  technic 
is  as  thorough-going  as  the  change  in  aim  and 
view-point:  this  must  be  amplified  in  the  next 
chapter. 


TECHNIC 

THE  late  Richard  Mansfield,  asked  to  ex 
press  the  difference  between  the  stage  of  the 
past  and  that  of  the  present,  replied  lacon 
ically  with  the  single  word:  "Light!"  He 
meant,  of  course,  to  make  a  comparison  be 
tween  the  modern  system  of  lighting  the  the 
atre  and  that  which  it  superseded,  the  theatre 
that  was  ill-lighted  or,  from  the  later  point 
of  view,  not  lighted  at  all.  As  a  result,  the 
expressional  work  of  the  actor  can  to-day 
be  clearly  seen;  where  once  language  was 
needed  to  explain  the  course  of  the  story,  the 
slightest  motion  or  facial  change  takes  its 
place.  Fundamentally,  modern  play-making 
substitutes  action  for  word,  and  in  this  sense 
is  less  "literary"  than  it  once  was.  The  word, 
waiting  on  the  action  and  scene,  has  become 
secondary;  yet,  paradox  as  it  sounds,  is  even 
more  important  than  ever,  because  each  word 

118 


Technic  119 


must  be  right  and  none  can  be  wasted.  The 
would-be  critic  who  sapiently  declares  that 
plays  are  now  no  longer  literature,  really 
means  this,  more  than  anything  else:  he 
nurses  the  old-time  mannerisms  that  dis 
tinguish  book-talk  from  life.  Modern  tech- 
nic  has  sternly  cut  down  the  language  of 
drama  to  what  is  dramatic:  the  ornamental, 
the  marginal-philosophic,  the  discursive  have 
been  compressed  or  entirely  abjured,  for  the 
sake  of  the  clean-cut  use  of  idiom  that  reveals  / 
character  and  advances  story.  This  is  the 
tendency  and  resulting  type,  with  whatever 
variations  due  to  different  genres  or  a  re 
action  against  a  too  tyrannous  insistence  on 
dramatic  concision. 

With  the  reproduction  of  life  as  our  aim 
and  ideal  (meaning  life  as  seen  by  the  eye), 
and  a  desire  to  give  upon  the  stage  a  sense 
of  the  broken  rhythm  of  life,  instead  of  the 
more  perfect  rhythm  of  art,  the  play  has 
come  to  show  men  and  women  in  their  habits, 
as  they  are  in  their  accustomed  daily  pur 
suits  and  pleasures,  in  dress,  speech,  setting 


I2O          The  New  American  Drama 

and  action,  fellow  creatures  like  ourselves, 
in  the  mere  recognition  of  whom,  for  the 
spectator,  lies  a  source  of  gratification.  And 
all  that  by  its  unnaturalness  blurs  this  recog 
nition,  the  playwright  strives  to  remove.  He 
has  pretty  well  eliminated  the  aside  and  looks 
unfriendly  on  the  soliloquy,  those  useful 
though  disillusionizing  devices  of  earlier 
dramaturgy.  He  has  remorselessly  got  rid 
of  subsidiary  characters  unless  they  are  vital 
to  the  story;  character  which,  of  old,  swelled 
the  number  of  speaking  parts  and  ran  up 
the  pay-roll  to  alarming  figures.  He  has 
cut  down  the  dramatis  persona  to  a  few  neces 
sary  folk,  four  or  five,  six,  eight,  ten,  as  the 
case  may  be,  who  are  sufficient  to  carry  one 
of  the  typically  intense  psychologic  compli 
cations  which  the  modern  play  a  la  Ibsen 
chooses  as  its  favorite  motive. 

Instead  of  many  scenes  and  five  acts,  the 
play  we  have  in  mind — the  play  of  advanced 
workmanship — using  the  motives  which  call 
for  such  a  form,  reduces  the  number  of  acts 
to  four,  more  often  to  three,  and  not  seldom 


Technic  121 


unfolds  the  whole  story  in  the  one  scene,  with 
no  change  of  setting  at  all.  In  the  same  way 
and  for  the  same  reason,  the  unity  of  time, 
as  well  as  that  of  place,  is  observed  in  its 
more  liberal  interpretation;  if  the  action  be 
not  confined  to  a  single  day,  it  is  compressed 
within  the  brief  limits  of  a  very  few  days — 
sometimes  within  but  a  few  hours.  This  is 
no  self-conscious,  pedantic  return  to  Greek 
methods,  but  simply  the  result  of  the  nature 
of  the  particular  kind  of  drama.  Seize  upon 
a  psychological  situation  in  its  central  and 
climactic  moment,  and  then  dramatize  it,  and 
logically  you  will  use  a  few  characters  acting 
and  acted  upon  for  a  short  time  in  a  specific 
place.  Making  so  much  of  this  supreme  mo 
ment,  it  follows  naturally,  too,  that  the  ex 
position,  formerly  conducted  in  a  most  lei 
surely  fashion,  and  with  little  attempt  to  hide 
its  use  from  the  audience,  is  now  minimized 
and  introduced  far  more  cunningly,  in  order 
that  the  antecedent  conditions  may  be  plaus 
ible  even  to  a  sophisticated  ear  and  eye.  A 
study  of  Ibsen  in  his  development  with  this 


122          The  New  American  Drama 

matter  of  exposition  in  mind,  will  throw 
light  upon  the  way  he  attained  to  mastery 
in  exposition  and  left  the  stage  of  his  time 
a  superior  method  in  this,  as  in  all  else  that 
pertains  to  craftsmanship.  Again,  the  actor 
who  traditionally  has  half  addressed  the 
audience  when  reality  demanded  that  he 
speak  to  those  on  the  stage,  has  come  more 
and  more  to  ignore  the  "front"  and  by  word 
and  attitude  to  produce  the  effect  of  really 
talking  to  his  fellow  characters.  This  ap 
proach  to  reality  has  been  carried  so  far  that 
an  artist  like  Mrs.  Fiske  at  times  turns  her 
back  squarely  to  the  audience  and  talks  up 
stage;  or  Robert  Lorraine  in  "Man  and 
Superman"  sits  astride  a  chair  and  delivers 
an  important  speech,  while  the  spectator 
studies  the  cut  of  his  coat  behind.  Those 
familiar  with  French  technic  are  aware  that 
the  French  player  talks  to  his  audience  where' 
the  English  or  American  actor  simulates  in 
his  dialogue  the  more  direct  relation  to  the 
persons  of  the  play. 

In   the  matter  of  scenery,   the  change  is 


Technlc  123 


equally  great.  The  box  set  of  to-day  may  be 
taken  to  stand  for  the  general  revolution 
which  makes  the  illusion  of  the  proscenium 
arch  so  wonder-working,  serving  ends  so 
widely  apart  from  those  secured  by  the  plat 
form  stage  of  Shakspere,  that  of  the  Res 
toration  Theatres  with  their  still  ample  space 
beyond  the  curtain,  and  the  Drury  Lane  type 
of  house  a  century  later,  which  still  suggests 
the  older  model.  It  is  this  approximation 
to  "life"  which  makes  the  knowing  theatre 
goer  smile  when  he  witnesses  some  famous 
piece  of  the  past — a  "Caste"  or  "Camille" — 
perhaps  still  vital  in  the  essentials  of  good 
story,  fine  character  drawing  and  stimulat 
ing  interpretation,  but  so  hopelessly  artificial 
in  method  and  manner  as  to  seem  the  product 
of  another  world.  The  easy  way  to  keep 
one's  reverence  for  such  drama  intact,  is  not 
to  see  a  performance  of  it,  to  say  which  is  no 
reflection  upon  its  worth,  but  merely  a  state 
ment  of  the  inevitable  fate  of  any  work  of  art 
which  represents  an  outworn  mode,  if  it  be 
sharply  contrasted  with  the  mode  that  sue- 


124          The  New  American  Drama 

ceeds  it.  And  in  the  case  of  drama,  the 
change  is  fundamental.  Its  function  is  ever 
to  show  the  age  its  form  and  pressure;  sensi 
tively  does  it  respond  to  every  wind  that 
blows,  and,  above  all,  it  bends  to  and  obeys 
the  Time-spirit. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  the  actor's  art  has 
changed  with  the  general  change, — the 
altered  stage,  the  more  accurate  reproduc 
tion  of  the  human  scene, — and  it  were  folly 
to  blame  him  if,  figuratively  speaking,  to-day 
he  refuses  to  use  the  buskin  and  tragic  mask 
(save  in  the  unusual  kind  of  drama  that 
calls  for  them) ,  and  insists  on  throwing  his 
work  into  the  low  key  of  naturalness  and 
the  gray  tints  of  every-day  life. 

Heartily  conceding  all  this,  and  as  heartily 
approving  it,  it  is  not  amiss  to  sound  a  note 
of  warning.  Drama,  after  all,  is  a  form 
of  art  and  for  that  reason  involves  some  arti 
fice,  as  each  and  every  art  does.  What  our 
time,  therefore,  has  done  is  not  to  exclude 
it,  but  to  refine  it  into  a  kind  of  artifice  less 
palpably  artificial.  There  has  been  a  ten- 


Technic  125 


dency  in  some  of  the  progressive  technic  of 
the  day,  to  go  on  the  practical  assumption 
that  all  the  difference  between  art  and  life 
can  be  eliminated  if  sufficient  skill  be  used: 
which  is  undesirable,  impossible  and  absurd. 
An  artistic  convention  that  can  never  be  done 
away  with  in  the  theatre,  for  example,  is  the 
removal  of  the  fourth  wall  that  the  auditors 
may  see  the  action.  Yet,  in  Jerome's  "The 
Passing  of  the  Third  Floor  Back,"  one  of 
the  characters  warms  his  hands  at  an  imagi 
nary  fireplace  at  the  footlights.  This  is 
surely  a  mistake.  It  makes  more  demand  by 
far  upon  the  spectator's  imagination  to  as 
sume  the  fireplace,  than  it  does  to  concede 
the  absence  of  the  fourth  wall, — a  concession 
to  which  he  has  become  quite  accustomed. 
There  is  a  good  deal  to  say  for  the  purely 
symbolic  use  of  scenery;  and  late  experience 
in  reviving  the  medieval  drama,  or  imitat 
ing  it,  the  staging  of  such  an  interesting  stage 
material  as  "The  Yellow  Jacket"  by  Messrs. 
Hazleton  and  Benrimo,  and  the  advanced 
teachings  of  Gordon  Craig,  Max  Reinhardt, 


Ia6         The  New  American  Drama 

Granville  Barker  and  other  leaders,  have 
broadened  our  views  in  this  interesting  field. 
It  remains  true,  nevertheless,  that  the  hands 
of  the  dramatic  clock  cannot  be  set  back 
several  centuries  arbitrarily  and  all  the  gains 
involved  in  the  modern  development  ignored. 
So  far  as  this  is  a  reaction  against  the  ideal 
of  scenery  for  scenery's  sake,  it  is  welcome; 
but  when  it  forgets  the  instinct  of  the  modern 
theatre-goer  for  congruity,  the  sophisticated 
demand  for  a  closer  agreement  between  the 
imitation  and  the  thing  imitated,  it  goes  too 
far  and  becomes  academic  rather  than  prac 
tical.  Acknowledge  the  omitted  fourth  wall, 
and  make  us  forget  it, — that  would  seem  to 
be  sound  advice  to  the  playwright. 

In  the  same  way,  in  the  attempt  to  make 
the  dialogue  "natural,"  to  reduce  the  key 
so  far  as  to  make  the  words  inaudible  half 
way  back  in  the  house,  and  to  minimize 
makeup  because  it,  too,  is  "unnatural,"  with 
a  result  of  pale  ineffectiveness,  implies  a 
failure  to  grasp  the  very  purpose  of  art, 
which  is  that  seeming-true  only  to  be  secured 


Technic  127 


by  the  proper  heightening  of  the  effects  of 
life.  Even  in  the  often  admirably  imitative 
broken  effects  of  modern  dialogue,  with  its 
incomplete  sentences,  its  interruptions  and 
overlappings,  there  is  danger  that  the  pattern 
become  ravelled  so  that  a  want  of  intel 
ligibility  may  follow.  No  good  dialogue, 
no  matter  how  realistic  its  purpose,  can  af 
ford  to  imitate  too  closely  without  peril  in 
the  consequence.  No  Zolaesque  conversa 
tion  can  reproduce  the  speech  of  the  gutter 
and  bagnio,  for  obvious  reasons.  And  the 
remark  applies  equally  to  imitation  in  gen 
eral.  Here  we  encounter  the  snare  of  modern 
technic  in  the  unimaginative  delineation  of 
so-called  truth  in  our  photographic  play 
wrights.  It  is  a  commonplace  to  point  to 
the  advantage  of  the  Elizabethan  audience 
over  our  own  in  that  appeal  to  the  imagina 
tion  which  wanes  from  disuse  when  the 
illusion  behind  the  proscenium  arch  does 
all  the  work  for  it.  Very  helpful  in  remind 
ing  us  of  this,  is  the  now  frequent  revival  of 
plays  of  more  primitive  methods,  not  to  seek 


12$         The  New  American  Drama 

their  installation,  which  is  impossible,  but 
for  their  suggestion  to  the  theatre-goer  that 
the  mind  and  soul,  as  well  as  the  eye  and 
ear,  are  involved  in  the  dramatic  experience. 

An  effective  use  of  simple  hangings  and  a 
more  artistic  manipulation  of  lights,  the  work 
of  a  Reinhardt  or  a  Platt  may  assist  to  imagi 
native  appreciation  as  never  can  the  most  ex 
pensive  conventional  settings.  The  directors 
of  our  Little  Theatres,  with  their  limited  stage 
areas  and  restricted  financial  means,  are  teach 
ing  us  this  lesson  as  they  purvey  the  intimate 
modern  drama  or  that  of  the  past. 

The  modern  wish  to  secure  the  effect  of 
naturalness  at  any  cost,  has  led  the  latter- 
day  technician,  among  other  things,  to  lean 
away  from  the  too-neat  constructional  de 
vices  of  the  Scribe-Sardou  school  and  to 
insist  on  Nature  at  the  expense  of  artifice. 
This  can  be  seen,  among  other  denotements, 
in  the  matter  of  curtains.  Where  before, 
there  was  the  formally  composed  picture 
and  the  crescendo  moment  of  emotional  ex 
citement,  as  likely  as  not  now  the  scene  ends 


Technic  129 


with  scarcely  an  extra  stress  of  emphasis. 
Instead  of  the  conventional  half-circle  of 
actors,  ready  to  bow  their  acknowledgment 
of  the  applause,  people  go  on  or  off  the  scene 
as  the  occasion  demands,  and  Life  dictates. 
The  artificial  ensemble  at  the  curtain  begins 
to  look  odd.  The  plays  ends  much  as  life 
would  end  the  situation  under  the  circum 
stances.  There  is  also  beginning  to  be  shown 
a  new  attitude  toward  the  entr'acte  and  the 
implied  break  in  the  course  of  the  story. 
The  several  parts  of  the  play  reduced,  as  I 
have  noted,  to  briefer  time  limits,  are  drawn 
closer  and  closer  together  and  the  division 
is  more  for  the  auditor's  relaxation  than  for 
the  purpose  of  representing  the  passage  of 
time.  Thus,  "The  Servant  of  the  House" 
is  an  example  of  the  closer-knit  play:  after 
the  curtain  it  resumes  the  action  exactly 
where  it  left  it  in  the  preceding  act.  This 
tendency  toward  a  unification  of  the  act  di 
visions  may  be  hardly  perceptible  as  yet, 
but  in  a  few  years  hence  it  will  be  more 
apparent,  I  think.  And  it  may  be  surmised 


130         The  'New  "American  Drama 

that  the  gradual  coming  of  the  one-act  form 
into  greater  favor  in  this  country  (it  was 
accepted  earlier  in  England  and  Europe), 
will  have  a  distinct  influence  in  the  simplifi 
cation  of  the  longer  play. 

Already,  dramatic  sketches  of  some  artistic 
and  technical  value  are  to  be  seen  on  the 
vaudeville  stage.  And  on  the  stage  legiti 
mate,  playhouses  like  the  Little  Theatres  of 
New  York,  Philadelphia  and  Chicago,  the 
Fine  Arts  Theatre  of  the  latter  city  and  the 
Toy  Theatre  in  Boston,  are  familiarizing 
American  audiences  with  dramatic  composi 
tion  that  takes  from  fifteen  minutes  to  an 
hour  for  presentation.  The  small,  intimate 
auditorium  with  its  atmosphere  establishing 
a  sort  of  entente  cordlale  between  actors  and 
audience,  makes  this  possible  and  must  in 
time  help  to  evolve  a  definite  dramatic  genre. 
The  one-act  drama  written  by  Beulah  Dix, 
George  Middleton,  Percy  Mackaye,  and 
Richard  Harding  Davis — to  mention  only 
these — may  be  set  down  as  pioneer  serious 
work  in  this  hopeful  direction.  Even  at  the 


Technic  13  f 


risk  of  eccentricity,  I  must  express  a  per 
sonal  preference  for  a  play,  of  whatever 
length,  which  is  played  straight  through, 
after  the  Shaksperean  fashion. 

Such  presentation  is  not  the  cause  of  the 
weariness  sure  to  follow  when  I  am  asked  to 
detach  myself  from  the  stage  story  and  sit 
in  a  hot  and  crowded  place,  the  boredom 
aggravated  by  an  attempt  on  the  part  of  the 
orchestra  to  make  audible  the  saccharine.  Let 
me  testify  that  the  shortest  evening  in  the  the 
atre  I  ever  experienced  was  in  hearing  the 
"Antigone"  of  Sophocles  enacted  without  in 
terruption  by  Margaret  Anglin  and  her  com 
pany,  in  the  Greek  Theatre  at  Berkeley,  Cali 
fornia.  It  is  well  to  remind  the  student  that 
the  curtain  was  introduced  because  of  the  ex 
igency  of  scene  shifting,  and  when  the  change 
of  scene  does  not  involve  time  (either  because 
no  other  setting  is  called  for  by  the  play  or 
because  of  the  use  of  the  double  stage), 
there  is  no  logical  reason  for  retaining  the 
entr'acte,  though  it  is  so  firmly  grounded 
a  tradition.  The  harbinger  of  what  may  be 


132         The  New  American  Drama 

expected  in  time  to  come  can  be  seen  now  in 
the  Little  Theatre  in  New  York,  where  Mr. 
Ames,  by  the  use  of  the  device  of  the  double 
stage,  is  able  to  play  a  piece  through  with 
but  one  wait,  during  which  the  audience 
passes  to  a  room  where  light  refreshments 
are  served.  In  a  four-act  play,  three  acts 
are  practically  continuous  and  the  saving  in 
time  is  perceptible,  so  that  the  play  may 
begin  proportionately  later  and  thus  allow  of 
more  time  to  dine  before  the  theatre.  This 
is  a  matter  for  the  specialist,  no  doubt,  of 
small  interest  to  theatre-goers  in  general;  yet 
they  would  be  practically  benefited,  I  believe, 
by  the  change  and  the  two  hours'  traffic  of 
the  stage  would  then  be  more  than  an  his 
torical  reference.  At  least,  the  consideration 
is  one  not  to  be  ignored  in  our  fast  evolving 
dramatic  technic.  The  establishment  of  The 
Princess  Theatre  in  New  York,  the  first  to 
devote  itself  exclusively  to  one-act  pieces,  is 
an  indication  of  the  increasing  interest  in 
this  sort  of  drama,  the  possibilities  of  which 
are  but  just  beginning  to  be  realized. 


Technic  133 


This  reshaping  of  the  drama  to-day  is 
altogether  welcome,  with  its  freer  experimen 
tation  and  plastic  adaptation  to  the  subject 
matter,  method  and  actual  physical  demands 
of  the  new  theatre,  and  already,  as  a  result, 
the  play  is  becoming  an  instrument  of  story 
telling  infinitely  more  effectual  in  certain 
ways,  and  in  its  best  specimens  is  offering 
work  that  deserves  the  name  of  literature  in 
any  fair  definition  of  that  much-tortured 
word.  It  is  time  to  drop  the  narrow  and 
conventional  use  of  the  term  which  denies 
to  an  able  drama  by  Fitch,  Thomas,  Sheldon 
or  Kennedy  any  literary  quality:  meaning 
thereby  the  flowers  of  rhetoric,  and  a  kind  of 
bookish  speech  which  defeats  the  aim,  which 
is,  the  reproduction  of  society  as  it  now 
exists.  A  play  of  skilful  exposition,  firm 
constructive  handling,  genuine  characteriza 
tion,  mastery  of  suspense  and  climax,  and  all 
the  elements  devoted  to  the  interpretation  of 
life  in  a  thought-compelling  story  and  in 
language  that  fits  the  persons  of  the  play  as 
the  glove  the  hand,  rising  and  falling  in  con- 


134          The  New  American  Drama 

sonance  with  their  mental  and  emotional 
experiences,  such  a  piece  may  be  as  truly  a 
worthy  contribution  to  letters  as  the  lyrico- 
tragic  work  of  a  Euripides  or  the  rhetorico- 
spectacle  drama  of  a  Shakspere.  Ibsen  is 
literature,  even  as  those  earlier  masters.  The 
fact  that  the  words  spoken  do  not  suggest 
print  (though  they  must  in  the  end  bear  the 
test  of  the  printed  page)  is  a  virtue,  not  a 
blemish.  Other  times,  other  customs.  We 
have  another  kind  of  life  to  present  and  must 
perforce  present  it  in  another  way:  the  new 
drama  will  faithfully  mirror  the  new  inter 
ests  and  the  despised  Present  will  in  due  time 
become,  it  may  be,  the  revered  "literary" 
Past.  Nothing  does  the  drama  more  harm 
in  this,  its  tentative  period  of  lusty  youth, 
than  the  talk  of  those  misguided  enthusiasts 
who  insist  on  confusing  an  absence  of  meta 
phors  and  recondite  allusion  with  an  absence 
of  literary  merit.  We  must  redefine  liter 
ature  to  include  these  more  direct  renderings 
of  life. 

It  were   quite   as   truly   a   mistake,   how- 


Technic  135 


ever,  to  leave  no  room  in  modern  play  mak 
ing  for  the  high  effects  of  poetry  and  the 
choice  of  such  romantic  motives  as  inevitably 
qualify  the  manner  of  play  which  expresses 
them.  Just  as  it  is  foolish  to  bring  an  ac 
cusation  of  unliterary  against  the  type  of 
drama  represented  by  "The  Great  Divide" 
and  "The  Easiest  Way,"  so  is  it  folly  to 
deny  to  plays  like  "The  Piper"  the  poetic 
form  and  imaginative  manipulation  of  ma 
terial  which  are  called  for  by  the  thought 
and  subject-matter  of  the  author.  This  phase 
of  the  American  contribution,  promising 
already  and  vital  with  activity,  will  be  dis 
cussed  in  the  following  chapter.  Suffice  it 
to  say  here  that  it  involves  some  most  im 
portant  questions  concerning  which  there 
is  much  divergence  of  opinion:  are  verse 
plays  still  legitimate,  can  drama  that  deals 
with  the  life  within  rather  than  the  life 
without  depart  radically  from  the  usual  prin 
ciples  of  sound  dramaturgy; — does  a  frank 
use  of  allegory  and  of  supernatural  agencies 
violate  the  ideals  which  modern  theatre  con- 


136          The  New  American  Drama 

ditions  are  formulating?  These  and  other 
problems  call  for  discussion  when  we  turn 
to  the  attempt  to  exhibit  upon  the  stage  the 
vision  that  is  beauty  and  the  joy  that  is  more 
than  of  the  day. 


VI 

ROMANCE 

THE  protean  word  Romance,  applied  to 
such  forms  of  story-telling  as  fiction  and 
drama,  indicates  at  least  two  quite  different 
attitudes  in  the  portrayal  of  life:  on  the  one 
hand,  the  presentation  of  the  more  exciting 
aspects  of  the  human  show — and  on  the 
other,  the  exhibition  of  the  more  heroic, 
idealistic  and  poetic  aspects  of  human  char 
acter.  The  one  emphasizes  sensation  and 
plot,  the  other,  while  often  sympathetic  to 
story  value  and  dramatic  situation,  cares  most 
for  such  accent  upon  the  evolution  of  human 
beings  as  shall  remind  the  world  of  the 
nobler  issues  of  living.  These  two  tendencies 
give  us,  in  fiction,  stories  like  the  Sherlock 
Holmes  series,  et  id  omne  genus,  and  in  con 
trast,  Hawthorne's  "The  Scarlet  Letter." 
Looking  to  current  play-making,  the  distinc 
tion  marks  the  difference  between  "Within 

137 


138          The  New  American  Drama 

the  Law"  and  "The  Servant  in  the  House." 
That  there  is  an  inextinguishable  liking  on 
the  part  of  theatre-goers  for  plays  which, 
viciously  or  innocently,  minister  to  the  ap 
petite  for  excitement — stage  stories  of  stir 
ring,  high-colored  content  so  handled  as  to 
suggest  that  life  is  more  than  vegetation — 
is  one  of  the  most  obvious  lessons  of  the  time. 
To  declare  that  farce,  which  is  the  romance 
of  humorous  plot,  and  melodrama,  where 
plot  is  first  and  characterization  and  message 
secondary,  are  necessarily  bad  and  signs  of 
the  degeneracy  of  the  modern  stage,  is  to  be 
academic  in  the  worst  sense. 

Technical  skill  of  a  high  order,  invention, 
able  characterization  and,  not  impossibly, 
a  distinct  ethical  quality  may  all  be  found 
in  melodrama  of  the  better  class,  in  plays 
like  McClellan's  "Leah  Kleschna,"  to  name 
but  one.  There  are  melodramatic  features, 
in  this  sense,  in  so  high  and  spiritual  a  play 
as  Mr.  Mackaye's  "The  Scarecrow,"  and  it 
is  all  the  better  stage  material  because  of 
them. 


Romance  139 


In  the  lighter  and  lower  meaning  of  the 
word,  however,  the  romance  in  dramatic 
form  is  so  popular,  so  ubiquitous  and  in 
sistent,  following  the  line  of  least  resistance, 
that  it  is  but  natural  it  should  be  overdone. 
All  who  follow  current  drama  are  aware, 
that  at  present,  the  theatres  are  suffering 
from  a  surfeit  of  so-called  crook  plays,  good, 
bad  and  indifferent,  and  the  insatiable  pub 
lic  taste  for  such  pabulum  inevitably  has  its 
result  in  a  confusion  of  standards,  both 
artistic  and  ethical. 

Superficially  viewed,  such  dramas  as  "The 
Deep  Purple,"  "Alias  Jimmy  Valentine," 
"The  Greyhound,"  "Within  the  Law," 
"Blackbirds,"  "The  Argyle  Case,"  "The  Con 
spiracy" — the  name  is  legion — seem  very 
much  of  a  piece;  in  reality,  there  is  the  differ 
ence  between  them  which  marks  the  dram 
atist's  danger:  the,  falsification  of  character 
for  the  sake  of  situation,  sensation,  plot.  There 
will  always  be  patrons  of  dramatic  entertain 
ment  to  applaud  the  play-maker  who,  as  Ste 
venson  whimsically  declared  of  Barrie's  "Lit- 


140          The  New  American  Drama 

tie  Minister,"  lie  so  delightfully  about  their 
puppets.  But  an  honorable  minority  at  least 
must  protest  at  the  slaughter  of  life  for  the 
sake  of  effectivism.  The  tendency  to  use  the 
underworld  of  great  cities  as  stage  material  is 
no  doubt  stimulated  by  the  present  exposures 
familiar  to  all  newspaper  readers.  But  the 
demand  for  this  more  elementary,  not  to  say 
elemental,  romance  is  steadily  a  human 
preference,  quite  aside  from  any  current  ac 
cess  of  interest.  "Take  us  out  of  ourselves," 
cries  that  hypothetical  person,  the  average 
play-goer.  "Give  us  to  realize  that  life  is 
livelier  than  we  see  it  in  our  daily  treadmill, 
and  we  shall  not  be  too  critical  as  to  your 
means  of  bringing  this  about.  Indeed,  you 
may  fib  about  life,  if  you  choose,  so  long  as 
you  amuse  us  with  your  high-colored  human 
exhibit.  Even  the  penny  dreadful  is  better 
than  the  gray  do-nothingism  of  the  thesis 
play."  The  great  success  of  such  an  old-fash 
ioned  and  purely  external  melodrama  as  "The 
Whip"  certainly  points  the  moral  that  there 


Romance  141 


will  always  be  an  audience  for  plot  in  the 
primitive  sense. 

Here  is  the  danger  referred  to.  To  senti 
mentalize  the  criminal,  to  show  him  as  an 
epitome  of  all  the  virtues,  while  his  way  of 
living  is  subversive  of  general  social  inter 
ests,  is  surely  bad  citizenship  on  the  drama 
tist's  part  quite  as  truly  as,  and  more  destruc 
tively  than,  if  he  ran  off  with  another  man's 
wife.  It  makes  for  uneasiness  to  reflect  upon 
the  influence  of  such  character  drawing  upon 
the  young  and  unformed — the  major  part  of 
all  theatre  audiences.  In  condemning  the 
types  of  which  the  debonair  Raffles  may 
stand  as  an  examplar,  one  must  clearly  dis 
tinguish  them  from  other  portrayals  where, 
as  in  the  person  of  Sherlock  Holmes,  the 
hero  is  corrective  of  crime,  or  a  Leah 
Kleschna  turns  her  back  upon  it  and  sets 
her  feet  upon  the  street  that  is  called  strait. 
Also,  to  do  justice  to  this  lurid  melodrama 
of  the  Newgate  tradition,  it  is  necessary  to 
admit  that  even  along  with  the  regrettable 


142         The  New  American  Drama 

and  often  absurd  representation  of  evil  life 
as  if  it  were  desirable  or  admirable,  there  is 
not  seldom  to  be  found  an  honest  sympathy 
with  the  derelicts  of  society  merely  as  hu 
man  beings,  and  human  beings  perhaps  for 
whose  degradation  society  is  largely  respon 
sible  :  the  creations  we  enjoy  in  "The  Pigeon" 
and  "Passers-By."  This  sentiment,  so  com 
mon  in  present  melodrama,  is  but  part  of  the 
wider  altruistic  movement  of  the  day  which 
has  enriched  the  fiction,  poetry  and  drama 
of  our  time.  Literary  art  is  studying  man 
in  the  three  progressive  view-points  of  hu 
man,  humane  and  humanitarian,  as  Mr. 
Galsworthy  has  so  happily  said.  Not  to  see 
the  good  in  all  this,  is  to  be  purblind  to  the 
spirit  of  the  age.  But  it  remains  true  that 
many  plays  of  the  moment  are  not  to  be 
taken  seriously  as  works  of  art  and,  because 
they  are  lightly  taken,  do  distinct  harm  as 
attempts  at  dramaturgy  and  pictures  of  life. 
True,  the  usual  melodrama  of  this  sort  is 
better  decidedly  than  its  prototype  a  genera 
tion  ago.  There  is  a  far  closer  approxima- 


Romance  143 


tion  to  the  facts  of  human  existence,  the  pri 
mary  colors  of  black  and  white  are  no 
longer  used  to  distinguish  the  villain  from 
the  hero  and  some  care  is  taken  to  establish 
a  relation  between  motive  and  act,  cause 
and  effect.  Virtue  is  no  longer  allowed  to 
triumph  so  surely  in  this  dramatic  vale  of 
tears,  nor  is  vice  denied  its  puzzling  suc 
cesses  in  this  world.  So  much  may  be  set 
down  on  the  side  of  gain — to  which  it  may 
be  added  that  the  level  of  technic  is  as 
suredly  higher. 

There  is  little  need  of  alarm  over  the  pres 
ent  excessive  cultivation  of  this  kind  of  play. 
Excess  destroys  itself  by  overemphasis  and 
motives  other  than  those  of  criminology  will 
contest  this  popularity  by  a  natural,  indeed, 
inevitable  reaction.  It  is  already  obvious  that 
the  tendency  to  impart  to  life  in  a  drama  the 
livelier  qualities  of  interest  and  excitement, 
is  not  confined  to  the  rather  primitive  type 
of  melodrama  which  deals  with  the  law 
breaker,  whether  in  big  business  circles  or 
the  humbler  walks  of  misdoing.  Many  of 


144         The  New  American  Drama 

our  leading  playwrights, — Sheldon,  Walter, 
Broadhurst,  De  Mille,  Armstrong,  Thomas, 
— infuse  vigor  into  their  social  studies  by  a 
frank  use  of  the  more  sensational  elements 
of  human  existence.  If  Bronson  Howard 
was  right  in  his  remark  a  generation  ago 
that  business  life  was  properly  to  be  the 
dominant  theme  for  dramatic  purposes,  it 
must  be  understood  that  business  is  more  than 
a  humdrum  interest  either  as  viewed  by  the 
man  of  affairs  himself  or  seen  in  its  epic 
sweep  and  potentialities  by  the  onlooker. 
With  the  business  man  it  is  often  a  passion, 
an  end  in  itself,  almost  a  thing  of  lyrical  ap 
peal.  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett's  acute  remark 
that  in  the  United  States  a  man's  business 
has  a  touch  of  poetry  for  him  in  contrast 
with  the  Englishman's  feeling  about  it  has 
been  referred  to.  As  a  result,  plays  which 
deal  with  such  themes,  like  Klein's  "The 
Lion  and  the  Mouse,"  or  Walter's  "Fine 
Feathers,"  with  the  connective  tissues  of  poli 
tics  and  society,  have  more  of  color,  move 
ment  and  suspense  than  might  be  expected 


Romance  14$ 


from  their  subject-matter.  The  problems  to 
day  of  monopoly  and  trusts,  federal  control, 
interstate  laws,  labor  vs.  capital,  currency  and 
the  tariff,  and  any  or  all  of  these  as  they 
touch  the  fate  of  the  industrial  worker  or 
the  human  being  in  his  social  relations,  are 
capable  of  epic  treatment  and  offer  fine  ma 
terial,  when  rightly  handled,  to  the  dram 
atist  of  our  transitional  time;  and  he  is 
beginning  to  give  them  forth  in  terms  of  ro 
mance  as  well  as  of  grayer  actuality.  The 
more  truthful  use  of  material  does  not  pre 
vent  such  a  feeling  for  imaginative  and  emo 
tional  effects  as  to  make  the  dramas  suitable 
entertainment  for  general  audiences.  When 
one  criticises  the  introduction  in  a  so-called 
realistic  play  of  a  melodramatic  or  romantic 
note,  it  is  not  justly  so  much  a  verdict  against 
the  point  of  view  as  the  airing  of  a  convic 
tion  that  it  is  out  of  place;  in  a  different  key, 
and  hence  inartistic. 

Perhaps  the  theme,  so  lending  itself  to 
countless  ramifications,  that  at  present  seems 
even  more  fruitful  than  that  of  business  life 


146          The  New  American  Drama 

is  that  which  deals  with  the  freedom  of  the 
individual,  economic,  social  or  political,  with 
woman  naturally  the  centre  of  interest. 
Within  our  generation  she  has  been  and  is 
undergoing  a  triple  revolution  in  these  par 
ticular  aspects  of  the  common  life.  She  is 
no  longer  the  same  as  wife,  mother,  wage- 
earner,  and  citizen.  And  although  at  pres 
ent  her  political  enfranchisement  would  seem 
the  burning  question,  when  it  is  settled,  as 
it  soon  will  be,  the  political  phases  of  her 
new  life  will  be  seen  as  one  facet  of  that 
general  evolution  of  the  sex  into  social  free 
dom  in  the  broadest  sense.  In  all  this,  surely, 
lies  magnificent  possibilities  for  the  play 
writer  of  democratic  sympathy  and  thought 
ful  observation.  The  romance  of  social  pas 
sion  makes  its  claim  to-day;  social  passion, 
the  altruistic  interest  in  others  for  the  good 
of  the  whole,  when  it  is  honestly  and  deeply 
felt,  cannot  but  add  an  emotional  value  to 
our  art  product  and  must  widen  to  include 
romance.  Dramatists  who  do  not  realize 
this,  recognize  its  value  for  stage  treatment, 


Romance  147 


and  feel  inspired  by  its  sensational  stimula 
tion,  quite  fail  to  grasp  an  opportunity. 
But  it  is  encouraging  to  note  that  even  in 
the  simpler,  more  obvious  kind  of  romance 
I  am  considering,  glimpses  of  this  apprecia 
tion  may  be  detected.  In  such  a  play  as  Mr. 
De  Mille's  "The  Woman,"  there  is  a  serious 
suggestion  of  woman's  significance  in  our 
daily  maelstrom  of  labor  and  social  activ 
ity  which  marks  the  work  as  an  advance,  not 
only  technically,  but  intellectually,  on  the 
conventional  picturesqueness  of  the  earlier 
"Strongheart";  although  the  tendency  to  trim 
for  immediate  effect  is  still  visible.  So  too 
Mr.  Sheldon's  "The  High  Road"  (men 
tioned  in  considering  the  realistic  drama), 
is  an  object-lesson  in  what  can  be  done  to 
link  woman's  individual  destiny  in  this  day 
of  broader  chance  and  judgment,  with  large 
public  matters;  and  the  remark  applies  in 
some  measure  to  Mr.  Patterson's  "Rebellion," 
where  the  vexed  problem  of  divorce  is  set 
forth  in  an  individual  instance  of  compelling 
interest.  Mr.  Sheldon's  latest  play  at  the 


148          The  New  American  Drama 

present  writing,  with  its  challenging  title 
of  "Romance,"  is  a  good  illustration  of  how 
these  genres  inevitably  blend  in  the  hands 
of  a  modern  writer  of  vigorous  imagination. 
By  setting  his  scene  in  the  perspective  of 
time,  using  the  devices  of  prologue  and  epi 
logue,  a  certain  romantic  effect  is  secured; 
while  the  central  scene  of  temptation  and 
spiritual  triumph  between  clergyman  and 
actress  has  the  familiar  realism,  yet  it  is 
romantic  both  in  its  full-blooded  emotional 
ism  and  its  conquering  of  the  call  of  the 
flesh.  This  piece  strengthens  the  feeling 
already  expressed  that  here  is  a  dramatist 
whose  mind  plays  freely  and  without  dicta 
tion  over  the  material  offered  the  stage  by 
our  day  and  by  human  nature.  In  these 
and  many  other  dramas  which  will  occur 
to  every  intelligent  play-goer,  the  drama  of 
mere  external  excitement  merges  into  that 
deeper  romantic  conception  which  involves 
character  study  and  a  comprehension  of  the 
vital  flow  of  American  life. 

The    romantic    possibilities    of  scene    and 


Romance  149 


atmosphere,  the  appeal  of  the  exotic  and  the 
faraway  are  also  coming  to  be  realized,  and 
some  promising  playwrights  find  their  op 
portunity  here.  The  work  of  Mr.  Tully 
belongs  here,  as  does  that  of  Eleanor  Gates 
(Mrs.  Tully),  whose  "The  Poor  Little  Rich 
Girl"  is  an  excellent  example  of  the  way 
in  which  the  psychology  of  dreams  may  be 
skilfully  blended  with  homely  realism  and 
social  satire  to  make  a  popular  play.  Drama 
like  Mr.  Tully's  "The  Rose  of  the  Rancho" 
and  "The  Bird  of  Paradise,"  by  the  use 
of  attractive  backgrounds  and  the  more 
primitive  or  unconventional  types,  as  well  as 
by  emphasis  upon  high-colored  incident  and 
action,  deserves  an  honorable  place  among 
our  hopeful  recent  native  playmaking.  It 
means  better  things,  come  or  coming,  in 
American  dramaturgy.  The  second  play 
shows  decided  advance  on  the  first  in  grasp, 
breadth  and  strength,  and  Mr.  Tully's  writ 
ing  by  no  means  lacks  in  literary  flavor, 
judging  as  one  must  in  the  case  of  unpub 
lished  material,  by  the  quick  testimony  of 


150          The  New  American  Drama 

the  ear  in  the  playhouse.  One  may  especially 
commend  the  manner  in  which  "The  Bird 
of  Paradise"  carries  through  its  tragic  theme 
with  no  paltering  for  effect,  so  that  the  key 
remains  throughout  beautifully  tonal.  On 
the  side  of  romance,  we  need  just  such  play- 
making  to  build  up  an  American  theatre. 
The  unusual  critical  and  popular  approval 
given  to  "The  Yellow  Jacket"  by  two  Ameri 
can  playwrights,  one  of  them  an  actor  of 
experience,  whose  hobby  had  long  been  the 
Chinese  theatre,  proves  that  in  proportion 
as  our  dramatists  go  farther  afield  and  have 
the  courage  of  their  convictions,  the  native 
stage  will  be  enriched  and  broadened  by 
these  refreshingly  unconventional  experi 
ments.  We  have  not  had  a  more  convincing 
illustration  of  the  value  of  the  stage  symbol 
still  to  awaken  the  imagination  deadened  by  a 
surfeit  of  scenery.  The  response  to  the  exotic 
note  struck  by  such  work,  and  further  evi 
denced  by  recent  plays  like  "The  Garden  of 
Allah,"  "The  Daughter  of  Heaven,"  "Bella 
Donna,"  "Kismet,"  and  "Joseph  and  His 


Romance  151 


Brethren"  (though  most  of  these  are  of  other 
than  American  manufacture),  is  teaching  us 
that  audiences  will  surely  react  from  a  too  ex 
clusive  attention  to  insistent  social  satire,  and 
desires  to  enjoy,  from  time  to  time,  an  irre 
sponsible  and  sportive  imaginative  mood  for 
its  own  sake. 

Mr.  Austin  Strong  is  a  young  romanticist 
in  the  drama  whose  work  is  refreshingly 
away  from  realism  in  the  narrow  sense.  His 
one-act  piece,  "A  Little  Father  of  the  Wil 
derness,"  so  admirably  played  by  Francis 
Wilson,  was  a  delightful  example  of  the 
imaginative  handling  of  historic  material,  and 
"The  Toy-Maker  of  Nuremberg"  possessed 
rare  charm  of  sympathy  and  poetic  feeling. 
It  is,  I  believe,  a  play  that  will  yet  come  into 
its  own  of  general  favor.  The  author's  treat 
ment  of  the  Rip  Van  Winkle  motive  was  also 
significant  in  showing  his  romantic  bent  and 
willingness  to  make  use  of  alluringly  stimulat 
ing  native  subject-matter.  It  is  dramatic 
writing  that  may  well  be  hopefully  watched. 

Edward  Knoblauch  is  one  of  the  younger 


The  New  American  Drama 


writers  who  takes  advantage  of  this  authentic 
mood  among  those  who  visit  the  playhouse. 
His  work  is  refreshingly  eclectic,  including 
dramas  so  widely  apart  as  "The  Shulamite," 
"Milestones"  (in  collaboration  with  Mr. 
Bennett),  "The  Faun"  and  "Kismet."  "The 
Faun,"  with  its  imaginative  fantasy  which 
embodies  an  enjoyable  satire  on  social  con 
ventions,  and  "Kismet"  with  its  amoral  feel 
ing  for  high  colored  adventuresomeness,  are 
especially  illustrative  of  the  genre  in  mind. 
Range,  diversity  and  the  spirit  of  experimen 
tation,  together  with  adequate  skill,  make 
such  dramatic  writing  promising  in  a  com 
paratively  new  playwright. 

Nothing  could  be  farther  from  the  truth 
than  to  proceed  on  the  assumption  that  one 
particular  sort  of  play  is  demanded  to-day. 
Theatre-goers  have  plainly  indicated  their 
eclecticism  in  this  regard.  Nor  is  there  any 
reason  why  this  often  merely  external  romance 
cannot  deepen  congruously  into  the  romance 
of  human  psychology.  The  submergence  of 
story  in  scenery  is  the  obvious  danger  in 


Romance  153 


this  kind  of  romantic  writing;  but  with  the 
proper  blend  of  elements  such  drama  is  thor 
oughly  worth  while.  Messrs.  Tarkington 
and  Wilson  in  their  collaborative  efforts  have 
a  tendency  to  introduce  a  kindly  romanticism 
of  character,  incident  or  setting  \vhich  takes 
us  back  to  Dickens,  and  although  not  so  deep 
as  a  well,  nor  so  wide  as  a  church  door,  at 
least  offers  innocent  amusement  in  the  House 
dedicated,  among  other  aims,  to  pleasure. 
It  is  as  easy  to  sneer  at  plays  like  "Cameo 
Kirby"  and  "Your  Humble  Servant,"  as  it 
is  at  Cohan's  farce  comedy,  or,  earlier,  Hoyt's 
lively  sallies  into  the  humorous  phases  of 
American  common  life.  Aristophanes,  to  a 
contemporary  eye,  may  have  looked  as  unlit- 
erary  as  a  Hoyt  or  Harrigan  to-day.  But 
it  is  likely  that  the  future  grave  historian  will 
point  to  all  this  manner  of  dramatic  writing 
as  part  and  parcel  of  the  social  painting  in 
letters  which  exhibits  the  Time. 

So,  too,  Eugene  Walter,  in  the  main 
sternly  a  realist,  in  "The  Wolf"  illustrates 
his  sense  of  the  legitimate  melodrama  that 


The  Ne<w  American  Drama 


lies,  still  largely  perdu,  in  the  great  frozen 
region  of  the  north;  the  kind  of  material 
made  attractively  familiar  in  Sir  Gilbert 
Parker's  short  stories.  The  west  is  frequently 
used  in  the  tradition  of  Bret  Harte  and  its 
romantic  possibilities  exploited;  Mr.  Arm 
strong  in  several  plays,  of  which  "The  Heir 
to  the  Hoorah"  is  typical,  and  Mr.  Moody 
in  "The  Great  Divide,"  offer  illustrations; 
and  the  constant  dramatizing  of  romantic  fic 
tion,  native  and  foreign,  is  part  of  the  same 
tendency:  "M'liss,"  "The  Pit,"  "Mrs.  Wiggs 
of  the  Cabbage  Patch,"  are  but  variants  of 
this  principle,  and  it  may  be  added  that  the 
entirely  proper  prejudice  against  the  book 
play  as  not  presumably  begotten  of  a  deep 
artistic  impulse,  but  rather  born  of  a  mer 
cantile  desire  to  give  the  public  what  it 
wants,  must  not  blind  us  to  the  always  pres 
ent  possibility  of  genuine  art  coming  from 
this  source;  to  deny  it,  would  be  to  be  placed 
in  an  embarrassing  critical  position  with  re 
spect  to  the  Elizabethan  drama.  Nor  must 
the  romantic  appeal  of  the  pageant  be  over- 


Romance  155 


looked,  an  aspect  of  the  drama  just  com 
ing  into  its  own  and  promising  so  much 
educationally.  The  attractive  visualization 
of  history  or  literature  in  this  fashion  is  so 
eagerly  seized  upon  that  the  only  wonder  is 
that  it  has  not  been  utilized  long  before. 
Mr.  Mackaye,  whether  in  his  critical  writ 
ings  or  in  an  open-air  pageant  like  "The 
Canterbury  Pilgrims,"  has  done  worthy  pio 
neer  work  in  this  field;  and  already,  in  the 
various  sections  of  the  land,  in  New  England 
and  the  south,  in  the  middle  and  far  west, 
local  traditions  and  records  are  giving  up 
of  their  treasures  that  the  people  may  be 
taught  of  the  past,  reminded  of  the  con 
tinuity  and  dignity  of  the  communal  life; 
and  may  realize,  as  they  never  can  from  the 
grave  pages  of  formal  history,  how  much  of 
romance  inheres  in  the  supposedly  dry  an 
nals  of  antiquity. 

The  children's  Shakspere  Festival  in  Chi 
cago  in  the  spring  of  1912,  conducted  under 
the  auspices  of  The  Drama  League  of  Amer 
ica,  was  a  novel  illustration  of  the  many 


156          The  New  American  Drama 

possibilities  offered  by  the  general  idea  of 
folk  festival  allied  with  the  rehabilitation  of 
the  past. 

An  impressive  example  of  the  effective  use 
of  local  history  for  stage  spectacle,  where 
the  record  is  so  romantic  as  to  lend  itself 
admirably  to  such  treatment,  is  that  of  the 
California  "Mission  Play,"  written  by  Mr. 
John  S.  McGroarty,  and  presented  in  the  old 
Mission  town  of  San  Gabriel  in  the  spring 
of  1912.  In  a  theatre  built  in  the  Mission 
style  expressly  for  the  purpose,  was  enacted 
a  drama  which  set  before  large  and  deeply 
interested  audiences  the  graphic  story  of  the 
Spanish  religious  settlement  upon  Califor- 
nian  shores,  making  central  the  beautiful 
pioneer  figure  of  Father  Junipero.  The 
success  of  this  historic  pageant  play  has  kept 
the  theatre  open  and  it  bids  fair  to  be  a  per 
manent  object-lesson  in  the  way  in  which 
history  can  be  vitalized  in  the  playhouse. 

But  there  is  another  phase  of  romantic 
stage  literature  in  which  the  play  depicts 
those  higher  spiritual  qualities  of  the  race 


Romance  157 


the  exhibition  of  which  bespeak  the  divinity 
which  is  in  man.  Here  again,  the  hard-and- 
fast  line  is  impossible,  merely  the  figment 
of  the  critic  for  the  sake  of  convenience. 
Tully's  "Bird  of  Paradise,"  for  instance,  has 
the  romanticism  of  ethnic  faith  quite  as 
truly  as  the  exotic  note  of  setting;  and 
Moody's  "The  Great  Divide,"  a  psychologic 
ideality  that  helps  to  make  the  play  stirring, 
while  its  western  coloring  adds  the  external 
touch  of  romance.  Yet  it  is  right  enough  to 
speak  of  this  emphasis  upon  the  spiritual  as 
definitely  giving  a  drama  the  romantic  value 
which  inheres  in  what  transcends  the  wonted 
experience  and  the  workaday  scene.  Moody, 
whether  in  closet  plays  like  "The  Masque 
of  Judgment,"  and  "The  Fire  Bringer,"  or 
in  practical  stage  vehicles  like  "The  Great 
Divide,"  and  "The  Faith  Healer,"  is  essen 
tially  the  poet,  and  his  view  the  poet's  view. 
He  recognizes  the  realities  of  man's  mount 
ing  spirit  and  insists  in  giving  a  place  to  that 
inner  life  which  marks  his  difference  from 
the  lower  orders  of  existence.  The  final 


158          The  New  American  Drama 

scene  in  "The  Great  Divide,"  where  Ghent 
tells  his  New  England  wife  of  the  mystic 
change  that  has  come  to  him  through  his 
love,  and  so  teaches  her  narrow  traditional 
ism  a  broader  conception  of  humanity,  is  very 
beautiful  poetry  indeed.  It  represents  that 
lofty  use  of  the  imagination  which  seizes  on 
the  common  facts  of  living  and  exposes  their 
finer  significance  in  the  realm  of  character; 
I  would  call  it  their  symbolic  significance, 
were  it  not  for  the  wretched  misuse  of  the 
word  to  denote  mental  crotchets  of  many 
kinds. 

And  still  more  truly  is  the  second  play, 
"The  Faith  Healer,"  a  noble  specimen  of 
the  prose  romance  in  our  native  playmaking. 
It  was  a  bold  and  worthy  attempt  to  take  a 
type  like  Michaelis  straight  out  of  the  Bible 
and  set  him  in  an  American  desert.  It  is 
like  saying  to  the  audience:  "The  St.  John 
the  Baptists  are  not  only  to  be  found  in 
the  Oriental  wastes  thousands  of  years  ago, 
but  here  and  now;  man  is  still  visioned, 
prophetic,  capable  of  seership.  Only,  you 


Romance  159 


must  have  faith,  even  as  had  he."  A  drama 
such  as  this  cannot  be  easily  disposed  of  by 
the  remark  that  it  was  a  failure  on  the  stage, 
and  hence  is  not  a  good  play.  Before  ac 
cepting  the  verdict,  we  must  define  a  good 
play  and  also  understand  who  settled  its  fate. 
"The  Faith  Healer"  has  not  as  yet  received 
the  opinion  of  American  playgoers  in  any 
general  way.  It  is  entirely  probable  that 
its  unfavorable  reception  in  New  York  was 
a  too  hasty,  local  judgment  to  be  of  much 
value.  It  may  even  be  surmised  that  the 
play  was  produced  somewhat  ahead  of  its 
time  and  must  await  its  proper  audience. 
Some  of  the  drama  of  Shaw,  now  very  pop 
ular,  had  to  \vait  thus  many  years  for  a 
theatre  audience;  but  it  came.  I  wish  later 
in  the  discussion  to  return  to  this  matter  of 
success.  It  would  be  a  depressing  thought 
with  regard  to  the  dramatic  future  in  Amer 
ica  not  to  believe  that  so  fine  a  piece  of 
dramatic  literature  as  this  last  Moody  play 
was  not  to  be  in  the  end  on  our  regular  native 
repertory. 


160          The  New  American  Drama 

The  same  feeling  may  be  expressed  of  Mr. 
Mackaye's  "The  Scarecrow."  His  work  in 
verse  drama  fellows  him  with  those  who  use 
that  form  and  will  be  discussed  in  the  next 
chapter.  But  Mr.  Mackaye's  prose  also  has 
the  imaginative  idealistic  implications  which 
make  it  romantic,  as  "Mater,"  "The  Scare 
crow,"  and  "Yankee  Fantasies"  demonstrate. 
Easily  first  among  his  plays,  and  to  my  mind 
one  of  the  few  dramas  so  far  written  and 
produced  in  a  theatre  that  can  lay  claim  to 
being  dramatic  literature  in  the  more  per 
manent  sense,  is  "The  Scarecrow."  Unlike 
much  of  the  writer's  work,  it  possesses  ex 
ternal  theatric  appeal  to  attract  a  general 
audience,  while  for  those  who  follow  Shaw's 
mandate  and  bring  their  brains  with  them 
to  the  playhouse,  it  has  the  advantage  of  a 
high  theme  adequately  handled  as  to  technic 
and  clothed  in  an  expressional  form,  which 
is  the  only  preservative  for  any  play.  Then,, 
too,  it  has  the  merit  of  being  genuinely  Amer 
ican;  taking  a  hint  from  Hawthorne,  it 
visualizes  the  romantic  New  England  past 


Romance  161 


in  a  way  to  give  pleasure  at  the  evocation, 
at  the  same  time  that  the  motive,  the  en 
nobling  power  of  love  which  before  our  very 
eyes  changes  a  clod  into  a  living  spirit  and 
culminates  in  a  victor  death,  has  a  meaning 
that  is  not  only  eighteenth  century  New 
England,  but  universally  human.  Here  is 
tragedy,  using  the  word  in  its  best  tradition. 
It  is  a  duty  to  pin  faith  to  a  writer  still 
young,  who,  whatever  the  inequalities  of 
his  dramas  in  general,  can  produce  one  such 
work  as  this.  Let  it  be  added  that  the  deli 
cate  poetry  in  that  other  prose  play,  "Mater," 
with  its  romance  of  character  in  the  mother 
who  embodies  the  eternal  spirit  of  love 
which  has  in  it  the  feeling  of  spring  and  the 
serene  indifference  to  moral  casuistry,  is 
further  proof  of  this  author's  welcome  as 
piration  to  do  justice  to  the  higher  reaches 
of  human  imagination  and  experience.  It  is 
a  pity  that  a  piece  in  many  ways  so  charm 
ing,  and  surely  right  in  its  main  concept, 
should  have  failed  of  complete  success  by 
the  somewhat  inconclusive,  too  subtle  nature 


102 


The  New  American  Drama 


of  its  ending.  One  can  but  believe  that  Mr. 
Mackaye's  greatest  promise  for  the  future 
lies  in  the  two  veins  of  playfully  imaginative 
satire  and  romantically  handled  spiritual  is 
sues  to  which  sufficient  objectivity  has  been 
given;  two  kinds  illustrated  by  "The  Scare 
crow"  and  "Mater."  The  fact  that  he  is 
sensitively  awake  to  the  thoughtful  issues  of 
the  day  is  shown  in  his  recent  drama,  "To 
morrow,"  where  he  has  boldly  seized  on 
eugenics  as  a  central  theme  in  a  love  story. 
It  may  be  that,  as  the  title  suggests,  this  is 
a  play  more  likely  to  be  welcomed  to-morrow 
than  to-day;  but  it  is  vital  and  earnest,  and 
nothing  is  more  likely  than  the  acceptance 
of  such  motives  for  playmaking,  and  general 
literary  treatment,  when  what  now  seems  pri 
marily  scientific  has  been  so  incorporated  into 
our  thought  as  to  possess  emotional  value. 
It  is  altogether  too  early  to  be  sure  about  a 
writer  evidently  still  in  the  experimental 
period.  And  the  consideration  of  his  verse 
plays  must  follow  anon. 

The  possibility  of  making  allegory  efifec- 


Romance  163 


tive  in  play  form,  now  as  in  the  past,  is 
perhaps  most  conspicuously  set  forth  by  the 
drama  of  Charles  Rann  Kennedy,  who,  al 
though  English  born  and  bred,  has  cast  his 
fortunes  with  our  native  playmakers,  and, 
indeed,  sought  American  citizenship. 

Here  is  a  dramatist  not  afraid  to  admit 
into  his  work  a  frank  element  of  the  didactic, 
but  who,  trained  as  an  actor  and  with  a  prac 
tical  knowledge  which  the  literary  preacher 
so  seldom  commands,  has  been  able  to  sur 
round  thesis  with  enjoyable  human  story, 
nor  forgotten  that  the  art  of  the  stage,  like 
any  other,  must  spell  entertainment  for  the 
multitude.  He  seems  tremendously  in  ear 
nest,  deeply  interested  in  life  and  aware  that 
humanity  at  large  is  much  concerned  with 
spiritual  matters.  The  public  reception  of 
"The  Servant  in  the  House,"  the  first  play 
to  make  him  known,  indicated  more  than  a 
response  to  a  novelty.  The  revival  of  "Every 
man"  had  paved  the  way  for  the  use  of 
allegory  and  morality  on  the  stage.  But  it 
was  the  spiritual  appeal,  pure  and  simple, 


164         The  New  American  Drama 

that  more  than  aught  else  made  the  play 
significant.  The  story,  as  such,  was  not  re 
markable;  its  originality  lay  in  the  bold  pro 
jection  into  an  ordinary  mundane  setting  of 
the  Christ  ideal  in  the  guise  of  the  mystic 
Oriental  whose  word  is  love  and  whose  in 
fluence  therefore  is  irresistible.  To  make  a 
fuss  about  a  drain  merge  in  a  Beatitude, — 
that  was  well  conceived  and  worthily  done. 
It  was,  moreover,  a  notification  to  all  con 
cerned  that  religious  ideas  could  still  be 
made  vital  in  a  theatre  to  the  popular  appre 
hension;  not  for  the  rapt  worship  of  the 
select  in  some  dramatic  Toyhouse,  but  as 
broad,  democratic  amusement.  And  the  fact 
served  at  once  to  extend  and  dignify  our  very 
conception  of  the  function  of  the  stage. 
There  are  few  more  significant  incidents  in 
American  dramatic  history  than  the  perform 
ance  of  this  piece  by  the  Miller  Players  on 
a  Sunday  at  the  University  of  Michigan, 
upon  an  invitation  by  the  authorities.  A 
representative  educational  institution  of  the 
west  thus  expressed  its  conviction  that  the 


Romance  16$ 


Sabbath  was  none  too  good  a  day  for  a  drama 
as  nobly  uplifting  as  this.  It  may  be  added 
that  any  weekday  is  too  good  for  innumerable 
plays  therein  to  be  witnessed. 

As  this  play  had  nobility  of  idea,  so  it  had 
skill  of  execution  and  a  deft  use  of  material. 
Its  success  was  no  doubt  strengthened  by 
such  a  scene  as  that  between  father  and 
daughter  in  act  third.  To  the  technician 
there  was  much  of  interest;  notably,  the 
"scene  individable,"  the  curtain  falling  only 
to  rise  again  upon  the  next  moment's  action; 
the  first  attempt  of  its  kind,  I  believe,  in  a 
full-length  English-speaking  play.  Mr.  Ken 
nedy  has  shown  himself  consistently  an  ex 
perimenter  in  form  throughout  his  work. 

For  one  thing,  he  is  evidently  interested  in 
a  more  compact  unity  of  structure.  "The 
Winter  Feast,"  his  next  play,  is  played  in 
the  one  setting  of  a  great  hall  half-illumined 
by  firelight;  the  key  is  that  suitable  for  a 
sombre  story  of  love  and  hate,  and  becomes 
a  dramatic  adjunct.  Similarly,  "The  Ter 
rible  Meek"  is  played  in  darkness;  and  for 


1 66          The  New  American  Drama 

"The  Necessary  Evil"  the  direction  reads  "to 
be  played  in  the  light,"  a  suggestive  state 
ment  in  relation  to  the  nature  of  the  piece. 
It  is  not  impossible  that  the  gray  monotone 
of  scene  in  "The  Winter  Feast"  may  help  to 
explain  its  failure,  although  it  was  artistical 
ly  right  as  background  for  a  psychologic 
tragedy  as  logical  and  laconic  as  one  of  the 
old  Norse  sagas.  The  relation  of  color  scheme 
to  theatre  mood  and  consequent  fortune  of  a 
given  play  is  an  aspect  of  the  theatre  prob 
lem  still  largely  in  the  vague.  In  any  case, 
this  terse  historical  drama  in  which  we  see 
a  lie  in  its  inevitable  sequence,  increases  one's 
admiration  for  the  author's  literary  resource. 
"The  Terrible  Meek,"  with  its  novelty  of 
the  darkened  stage  which  heightens  the  ten 
sion  by  making  the  one  appeal  to  the  ear, 
bringing  the  message  as  if  from  a  world 
beyond  physical  sight,  is  an  experiment  in 
the  one-act  form  and  also  illustrates  the  au 
thor's  prepossession  with  idea.  The  meek 
shall  inherit  the  earth ;  how  else,  save  by  that 
eloquent  pleading  of  silence  and  submission 


Romance  167 


to  the  wrong  that  is  done  them?  The  play 
suggests  that  as  the  founder  of  Christianity 
died  to  make  memorable  this  principle,  so 
it  is  further  set  forth  whenever  a  man  in 
nocently  perishes  in  war?  Here  is  Mr.  Ken 
nedy's  preachment  against  war,  and  he,  like 
Mr.  Zangwill  in  "The  War  God,"  aligns 
himself  with  much  modern  thought.  The 
perfectly  reverent  visualization  of  the  ancient 
sacrifice,  type  of  all  since,  was  dangerous  be 
cause  it  exposed  the  writer  to  the  absurd 
charge  of  tampering  with  holy  things.  The 
woful  state  of  much  dramatic  criticism  in 
this  land  was  revealed  by  the  frequency  with 
which  this  play  was  called  "sacrilegious." 
When  Calvary  was  dimly  bodied  forth  in  the 
dawn,  the  mind  properly  established  the  con 
nection  and  realized  that,  now  as  then,  the 
meek  conquer  even  in  apparent  defeat. 

In  "The  Necessary  Evil,"  we  get  the  au 
thor's  protest  against  the  conventional  view 
of  the  fallen  woman,  which  puts  her  beyond 
the  pale;  and  also  against  the  trite  tradition 
that  the  young  and  pure  should  remain  igno- 


1 68          The  New  American  Drama 

rant  of  the  world  as  it  is :  the  sort  of  ignorance 
which  led  Miss  Robins'  "Little  Sister"  to  her 
doom.  The  problem  is  debatable,  with  ear 
nest  and  honest  folk  on  either  side;  and  no 
where  an  honester  opinion  than  this.  Re 
garded  merely  as  a  story,  it  is  exceedingly 
interesting,  as  it  is  handled  in  a  one-act  scene 
with  such  character  contrasts  in  father,  son, 
daughter  and  half-mystic  woman  of  the 
streets  who,  seating  herself  in  the  seat  of  the 
dead  mother,  links  herself  in  this  scenic  way 
with  the  eternal  womanhood  which  is  One, 
of  which  she  is  therefore  a  part.  The  imagi 
nation  which  has  here  been  able  to  suggest 
so  much  beyond  the  mere  external  facts  as 
they  appear,  is  one  that  is  needed  and  wel 
come  upon  our  stage  to-day. 

It  is  stimulating  to  hear  that  Mr,  Ken 
nedy's  next  drama,  "The  Idol  Breaker,"  has 
for  its  subject  human  freedom  and  is  dedi 
cated  to  the  American  people, — the  writer's 
adoptive  country. 

One  of  the  emancipated  young  managers 
in  New  York,  Mr.  Arthur  Hopkins,  has  de 
clared  that  the  future  drama  in  this  land  will 


Romance  169 


be  a  drama  of  ideas,  "stage  production  with 
an  idea  underlying  it.  The  idea's  the  com 
ing  thing,"  says  Mr.  Hopkins.  "Let  an 
author  have  an  idea,  and  a  producer  the 
ability  to  see  it,  and  to  work  to  get  it  over 
to  the  audience,  and  you  have  the  drama  of 
the  future." 

Mr.  Kennedy  looks  very  much  like  such 
a  dramatist.  He  has  ideas,  which  he  expres 
ses  in  terms  of  skilled  playmaking,  and  those 
ideas  contain  heart,  conscience,  imagination,  f 
He  sets  before  audiences  the  romance  of  con 
duct,  the  poetry  of  spiritual  ideals.  And 
whatever  be  the  individual  disagreement 
with  his  thesis,  he  can  count,  increasingly, 
upon  a  large  following  that  recognizes  clean 
workmanship  and  wholesome  thinking  when 
they  are  offered. 

It  is  evident  that  in  various  ways  those 
better  elements  of  life  which  give  it  romantic 
meaning  are  being  portrayed  in  the  theatre 
by  writers,  most  of  them  young  and  feeling 
their  way  as  yet  tentatively,  who  are  receiv 
ing  encouragement  from  theatre-goers  in 
such  interpretation  of  the  human  spectacle. 


170          The  New  American  Drama 

Whether  it  be  the  romance  of  setting,  or 
story;  of  exotic  atmosphere,  or  the  pleasure 
evoked  by  the  mysterious  and  mystic; 
whether  the  stimulus  come  from  the  won 
ders  of  science,  or  the  spiritual  realm  that 
lies  beyond  scientific  ken  and  gives  oppor 
tunity  for  the  display  of  the  highest  that  is 
in  human  beings,  the  unifying  fact  is,  that 
another  interest  than  that  of  the  factual,  the 
actual  and  the  average  is  aroused.  This  ap 
peal  and  its  response  are  now  very  percep 
tibly  a  part  of  the  dramatic  current  as  it 
widens  to  take  in  many  contributory  waters. 
And,  of  course,  this  recrudescence  of  the 
romantic  is  but  the  reaction  of  our  day  to  the 
eternal-romantic  which  is  ever  reappearing 
because  it  is  a  constituent  part  of  life,  a  mood 
that  man  for  his  own  sake  must  cherish,  and 
will.  For  a  little,  perhaps,  it  may  be  sub 
merged,  seemingly  drowned  in  the  seethe  of 
topical  subject-matter  and  superficial  pho 
tography;  but  it  rises  to  the  surface  once 
more,  bringing  precious  things  from  the 
depths,  even  that  Beauty  which  is  but  the 
finer  expression  of  truth. 


VII 

POETRY 

POETRY  on  the  stage  might  be  conveniently 
described  as  romance  at  its  best  of  subject- 
matter,  plus  definite  metrical  form.  To  say 
this,  is  not  to  forget  that  in  the  broad  sense 
(a  sense  recognized  in  German  by  the  use 
of  the  word),  poetry  cannot  other  than  arbi 
trarily  be  confined  to  verse  plays.  When  the 
writer's  view  rises  to  vision,  and  imagination 
kindling  with  emotion  leads  on  to  music,  the 
verse  born  is  natural;  it  becomes  a  psycho 
logic  necessity  rather  than  a  mere  technical 
or  traditional  device  or  convention.  Let  it 
be  granted  that  Kennedy's  "The  Terrible 
Meek"  and  Moody's  "The  Faith  Healer"  \ 
are  poetry,  although  written  in  prose:  yet, 
we  have  a  right,  I  think,  to  place  in  a 
category  still  higher,  such  drama  as  Pea- 
body's  "The  Piper,"  because  the  poetic  form 

171 


172          Che  New  American  Drama 

•M^M^^M^^MHMHMV^MBMMiLHaMaMMM^M^MMIH^^M^^M^M^H^H^^^^M^^M^^^M^M^B—MMM—MHWMMM* 

is  the  outward  expression  of  a  loftier  flight. 
The  present  writer  must  disagree  with  those 
who  hold  that  verse  is  no  longer  acceptable 
in  our  modern  theatre  and  particularly  de 
trop  in  "practical"  America.  That  idea  of 
the  exclusively  practical  and  materialistic 
nature  of  the  American  type,  handed  along 
as  a  stupid  tradition,  has  been  contradicted 
by  the  work  of  our  thinkers  and  writers  from 
Jonathan  Edwards  to  Mark  Twain,  and 
might  well  be  allowed  to  die.  It  is  pleasant 
to  hear  M.  Bergson,  a  recent  distinguished 
visitor  to  our  shores,  declare  his  sense  of  the 
national  idealism  he  thought  he  detected 
alike  in  our  architecture,  business  life  and 
educational  aims. 

Were  it  the  business  of  dramatic  art  to 
photograph  life  and  nothing  more;  to  repro 
duce  its  average  surface  manifestations  nor 
aim  at  the  deeper  truth  which  is  psychologic 
and  would  report  of  the  subjective  soul  ex 
periences  of  man, — thus  seeking  by  selective 
adaptation  to  interpret  life's  meaning, — then 
verse  as  a  form  of  utterance  might  be  tabu 


Poetry 173 

to-day.  But  this  is  surely  not  so.  Every 
pair  of  lovers,  irrespective  of  class,  education 
or  morale,  are  in  a  state  of  mind  such  that 
they  think  and  feel  poetry,  if  they  do  not 
speak  it.  The  blank  verse  spoken  by  Romeo 
and  Juliet  is  exactly  the  language  which 
conveys  their  emotional  condition,  even  if  it 
is  not  at  all  the  actual  speech  of  an  Italian 
boy  and  girl  seized  by  the  master  passion.  It 
is  the  business  of  great  art  to  give  us  a  vivid 
sense  of  their  feeling,  and  blank  verse  is  a 
medium  for  externalizing  this,  and  hence,  is 
truer  a  hundred  times  than  it  would  be  to 
reproduce  after  the  manner  of  the  phono 
graph  the  stammering  insufficiency  of  the 
love-lorn  twain.  The  great  artists  of  fiction 
and  drama  in  their  love  scenes  have  recog 
nized  this  and  secured  their  effects  in  ac 
cordance  with  the  principle.  It  is  Maeter 
linck's  merit  that  in  his  earlier  plays  he  gives 
us  a  realization  of  the  value  of  silences,  of 
the  unsaid,  while  he  wrote  dialogue  full  of 
banale  repetition  and  daring  commonplace. 
The  reader,  aroused  in  his  imagination,  reads 


174          The  New  American  Drama 

between  the  lines  and  listens  to  the  poetry 
of  feeling  which  is  behind  the  prose  of  ex 
pression, — another  way  of  bringing  about 
the  same  thing.  The  argument,  in  fact,  might 
be  extended  to  include  many  other  aspects 
of  life  than  those  centering  in  the  amatory 
emotions.  In  his  recent  play  "Rivoli,"  Rene 
Fanchois  explains  his  passing  from  verse  to 
prose  in  different  acts,  according  to  the  kind 
of  life  shown.  Camp  life,  being  democratic, 
he  affirms  (on  pent  les  tutoyer)  is  in  prose. 
"But  with  the  coming  of  Buonaparte,  all 
changes;  severe  discipline  begins;  little  bat 
talions,  the  words  of  the  drama,  are  organ 
ized  by  the  master.  They  align,  they  form 
regular  companies;  they  become  verse." 

I  may  add  that  to  regard  Shakspere's 
mingling  of  verse  and  prose  as  merely  the 
obeyance  of  an  artistic  convention  of  his  day 
is  to  miss  the  point.  His  free  use  of  both 
forms  within  the  same  play,  unlike  the  habit 
which  preceded  him,  was  an  expression  of 
his  bold  union  of  the  homely,  humorous  and 
commonplace  with  that  which  was  high  and 


Poetry  17$ 

beautiful,   as  he  saw  they  were  mingled  in 
life. 

Those  adventurous  spirits,  then,  like  Miss 
Peabody  and  Mr.  Mackaye,  who  have  used 
the  verse  form,  are  within  their  rights:  if 
the  theme  be  fit  and  the  mood  authentic, 
the  audience — yes,  even  the  much-abused 
American  audience — will  not  object.  The 
reiterated  statement  that,  the  theatre  being 
democratic,  and  the  play  properly  aimed  at 
the  general,  poetry,  which  is  for  the  few, 
can  never  make  the  wide  appeal  to  insure 
success,  by  no  means  settles  this  important 
question.  In  its  primary  significance,  poetry, 
that  is  to  say,  story  presented  in  a  songful 
way,  has  been  the  favorite  mode  of  expres 
sion  in  the  early  development  of  all  peoples. 
And  if,  in  its  later  and  subtler  manifestations, 
poetry  comes  to  exist  for  the  comparatively 
limited  number  who  are  prepared  for  it, 
dramatic  pioneers  who  use  it  (encouraged  by 
so  much  in  the  past)  will  find  their  hearers, 
though  few,  and  can  afford  to  wait  for  the 
larger  hearing.  As  Mr.  Aldrich  remarked  in 


176          The  New  American  Drama 

a  private  letter,  "it  is  the  few  who  settle  the 
fate  of  poetry."  Nor  is  it  conclusive  to  say, 
in  opposing  this  view,  that,  whereas  the  gen 
eral  audiences  in  the  Globe  Theatre  were 
ready  for  Shakspere's  imaginative  lines,  the 
modern  audience  wishes  prose  and  is  bored 
by  the  scholar-specialist's  attempt  to  revive 
an  outworn  fashion.  On  the  contrary,  the 
native  theatre  within  the  past  ten  years  has 
counted  among  its  distinct  successes,  plays 
which  have  dealt  idealistically  with  life, 
whether  in  verse  form  or  not,  and  plays 
which  have  embodied  poetic  conceptions  in 
the  traditional  verse  forms  have  failed,  if 
failed  they  have,  because  they  were  bad 
plays,  rather  than  because  they  were  in  verse. 
I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  a  drama  which 
is  poetry  both  in  form  and  substance,  and 
also  dramatic — and  which,  moreover,  is  not 
killed  in  advance  by  allowing  the  unfortu 
nate  impression  to  get  abroad  that  it  was  for 
the  elite  alone,  would  receive  a  cordial  re 
ception.  The  public  is  not  so  averse  from 
imaginative  beauty  as  some  managers  and 


Poetry  177 

critics  seem  to  imagine.  The  genuine  favor 
with  which  a  play  like  "The  Piper"  has 
been  greeted,  here  and  abroad,  makes  for 
the  conclusion  that  such  work  is  welcome  in 
this  country. 

Mrs.  Marks  has  a  distinguished  place  as  a 
lyric  poet.  One  such  volume  as  her  "The 
Singing  Year"  would  settle  that  claim.  But 
like  many  another  lyrist  within  the  last  few 
years,  she  has  turned  to  dramatic  verse,  and 
done  work  that  has  gained  in  stage  value 
while  it  has  not  lost  in  literary  flavor.  The 
earlier  "Marlowe"  and  "Fortune  and  Men's 
Eyes"  were  charming  examples  of  the  use 
of  Elizabethan  subject-matter,  and  the  for 
mer  particularly  had  a  salience  of  characteri 
zation  in  the  title  figure  and  an  atmospheric 
setting  called  for  by  the  motive  which  made 
it  not  only  an  enjoyable  piece  of  work  to 
read  but  decidedly  effective  when  played  by 
the  Harvard  students,  with  the  assistance  of 
Professor  George  P.  Baker.  Of  both  dramas, 
however,  it  is  fair  to  say  that  they  were  of 
lyric  rather  than  of  dramatic  quality.  Nor 


178          The  New  American  Drama 

with  all  its  strange  beauty  can  we  speak 
otherwise  of  "The  Wings,"  seen  in  Boston  in 
a  special  performance. 

But  "The  Piper"  exhibited  the  author  as 
one  who  could  successfully  make  the  broad 
appeal  to  a  general  audience  and  yet  write 
a  noble  poem  in  stage  form.  With  the  mere 
result  of  public  applause,  the  English  ver 
dict  which  awarded  the  Stratford  prize  to 
Miss  Peabody  may  have  had  something  to 
do.  But  when  the  play  was  given  somewhat 
tardily  at  the  New  Theatre  in  New  York, 
it  was  revealed,  for  all  its  subtlety  and  deli 
cacy,  as  a  genuine  theatre  piece.  Many  of 
.us,  on  reading  it,  may  have  pronounced  it 
delightful  poetry,  but  hardly  stage  material. 
Probably  we  did  not  realize  its  external  pic- 
turesqueness  and  the  unforced  beauty  of  its 
child  mood  passing  from  tenderness  to  ten 
derness  into  the  high  spiritual  note  of  the 
climax,  when  the  Piper,  embodiment  of  joy 
and  wanderlust,  yields  the  little  ones  back  to 
their  homes  and  allows  the  claim  upon  them 
of  that  ideal  of  the  Lonely  Man  which  is 


Poetry  179 

greater  even  than  joy:  self-sacrifice  and  the 
comforting  of  sorrow. 

It  was  a  somewhat  daring  experiment  to 
seize  on  a  story  so  integrally  associated  with 
Browning  as  this  of  the  Pied  Piper.  But  the 
Victorian  poet  handled  it  in  ballad  fashion 
with  his  original  youthful  audience  in  mind; 
it  remained  for  the  American  to  enrich  it 
with  psychological  meanings,  triumphantly 
successful  in  a  much  more  difficult  genre. 
Here  is  another  answer  to  the  silly  criticism 
which  objects  to  derivation  in  literary  mo 
tives.  The  fundamental  question  for  art,  is 
not  where  you  get  it,  but  what  you  do  with 
it.  And  this  play  is  written  in  lovely  blank 
verse  interspersed  with  occasional  lyric  forms. 
The  form  is  absolutely  congruous  with  the 
theme,  and  it  is  hard  to  see  what  would  be 
gained  if  prose  were  used;  contrariwise,  it 
is  very  easy  to  imagine  the  loss.  There  are 
passages  which  for  the  sure  transmitting  of 
character  and  story  might  be  condensed  to 
advantage.  But  that  this,  in  its  kind,  is  a 
good  acting  drama  is  indisputable.  A  mem- 


180         The  New  American  Drama 

her  of  the  Benson  Company  in  England  told 
me  that  nothing  they  did  outside  of  Shak- 
spere  received  warmer  response  in  the  prov 
inces  than  this  Peabody  play. 

It  is  steadily  the  purpose  of  this  study  to 
speak  of  the  significant  acting  drama  in 
America,  which,  whether  published  or  not, 
possesses  some  value  in  technical  accomplish 
ment,  literary  quality,  and  interpretation  of 
life.  Drama  that  has  literary  worth  but  is 
obviously  not  written  for,  or  at  least  not 
adapted  to,  stage  use,  even  when  important 
in  letters,  is  not  included  in  the  survey.  It 
must  be  borne  in  mind,  however,  that  poetic 
plays  may  have  been  written  which  as  yet 
have  had  no  production  in  the  theatre  and 
nevertheless  may  be  genuine  stage  drama, 
for  which  the  native  audience  has  not  been 
quite  ready.  Such  a  drama  as  George  H. 
Bokef's  "Francesca  Da  Rimini,"  dating  a 
generation  ago,  proved  its  acceptability  for 
acting  purposes  and  is  dramatically  superior 
to  later  plays  on  the  same  theme.  Thomas 
Bailey  Aldrich's  "Mercedes"  would  certainly 


Poetry  181 


appear  to  have  acting  value,  although  his 
"Judith  of  Bethulia,"  fine  poetry  as  it  is,  lacks 
the  essentials  of  practical  technic.  The 
so-called  closet  play,  pure  and  simple,  has 
been  and  is  being  vigorously  written  in  the 
United  States,  but  more  and  more  from  this 
time  forth  poetic  expression  will  be  com 
pelled  to  obey  the  exigent  demands  of  the 
footlights,  if  it  is  to  be  vitally  related  to  our 
dramatic  literature. 

The  time  is  well-nigh  over  when  our  aspir 
ing  Shelleys  and  Swinburnes  will  write  in 
nominal  dramatic  form  with  no  real  knowl 
edge  of  the  theatre,  and  perhaps  no  definite 
purpose  of  presentation.  In  such  work  as 
Dr.  van  Dyke's  "Rimon,"  a  really  excellent 
dramatic  opportunity  handled  with  undoubt 
ed  vigor  and  literary  atmosphere,  the  work 
suffers  from  the  want  of  the  expert  hand; 
collaboration,  one  feels,  would  shape  a  drama 
that  might  make  the  dual  appeal  of  litera 
ture  and  the  stage.  The  remark  applies  as 
well  to  the  drama  that  is  being  written  by 
Cale  Young  Rice,  who  may  yet  prove  himself 


182          The  New  American  Drama 

a  poet  of  the  theatre.  Certainly  his  charm 
ing  one-act  piece,  "A  Night  in  Avignon," 
gave  pleasure  to  audiences  when  it  was 
witnessed  at  the  hands  of  the  Donald  Rob 
ertson  Players  in  Chicago.  Mrs.  Dargan's 
interesting  work  in  poetic  drama  also  falls 
into  this  catagory;  most  of  it,  and  this  is 
especially  true  of  the  third  volume  entitled 
"The  Mortal  Gods/'  does  not  meet  the  re 
quirements  of  presentation.  One  play  at  least 
in  an  earlier  book,  to  wit,  "The  Shepherd," 
has  the  elements  of  an  acting  play.  Again, 
it  is  impossible  to  read  "The  City"  and  "The 
Tides  of  Spring"  by  the  late  Arthur  Upson, 
without  feeling  that  had  the  author  not  died 
untimely,  he  would  have  learned  to  meet 
stage  demands  and  brought  to  it  poetry  of 
the  high  kind  which  dignifies  the  theatre.  In 
fact,  plans  are  making  while  these  words  are 
being  written  for  the  production  of  the  last- 
named  one-act  piece  by  the  Little  Theatre 
in  Chicago. 

The  elaborate  and  somewhat  austere  clas 
sical  plays  of  the  late  George  Cabot  Lodge 


Poetry     v  183 

constitute  closet  drama  obviously;  and  hence, 
filled  with  beauty  as  they  are,  they  are  not 
quite  germane  to  the  discussion.  Mr.  Her 
mann  Hagedorn,  Jr.'s  work  may  be  watched 
as  not  unlikely  to  perform  the  marriage  of 
stage  technic  and  literature,  and  the  same 
hope  is  aroused  by  Mr.  Ridgley  Torrence, 
whose  "Abelard  and  Heloise"  was  accepted  by 
a  leading  actress,  although  as  yet  it  has  not 
been  seen.  Miss  Amelia  J.  Burr,  in  several 
published  plays,  of  which  "The  Point  of 
Life"  is  the  most  noteworthy,  shows  the  gift 
of  spiritual  insight  and  imaginative  expres 
sion  with  an  increasing  sense  of  dramatic 
value,  and  it  does  not  seem  rashly  prophetic 
to  say  that  sooner  or  later  her  work  will  be 
heard  in  the  playhouse.  One  piece,  indeed, 
has  been  accepted  by  a  well-known  actress. 

Mr.  Moody's  verse  plays  are  academic  and 
of  high  import  as  such,  but  executed  with  no 
thought  of  practical  use. 

Were  the  closet  play  within  the  purview, 
the  remarkable  cycle  of  poetic  dramas 
planned  and  but  partially  carried  out  by  the 


184          The  New  American  Drama 

late  Richard  Hovey  would  perforce  also  de 
mand  more  attention  than  is  suitable  to  the 
plan.  He  had  conceived  a  dramatic  series 
dealing  with  the  Arthurian  stories  and  en 
titled  "Launcelot  and  Guenevere,  A  Poem 
in  Drama,"  and  described  in  the  poet's  own 
words  as  "a  re-telling  of  the  central  drama 
about  which  the  other  legends  of  the  Arthu 
rian  cycle  are  grouped."  Of  the  nine  books, 
as  planned,  four  dramas  were  published: 
"The  Quest  of  Merlin,"  "The  Marriage  of 
Guenevere,"  "The  Birth  of  Galahad,"  and 
"Taliesin" — the  first  and  last  masques  in 
form.  It  was  Hovey's  purpose  to  take  these 
old  tales,  so  often  and  splendidly  lending 
themselves  to  imaginative  treatment  in  let 
ters,  art  and  music,  and  interpret  them  anew 
in  their  modern  psychologic  and  poetic  im 
plications.  From  what  he  did  in  the  com 
pleted  plays,  and  "The  Holy  Grail"  and 
other  fragments  printed  since  his  death,  it 
can  be  seen  that  this  large  Schema  was  such 
as  to  insure  some  noble  poetry  thrown  into 


Poetry  185 

the  play  form;  and  moreover  that  the  author 
intended  to  shape  it  for  stage  use. 

It  is  therefore  an  interesting  question  if 
this  drama  be  really  suited  to  production,  so 
that  we  may  hope  to  see  it  in  the  future  when 
a  repertory  of  native  drama  has  been  es 
tablished  on  our  stage?  This  may  be  doubt 
ed.  In  any  case,  it  is  sure  that  the  last 
completed  play,  "Taliesin,"  which  is  con 
fessedly  the  finest  as  poetry,  is  furthest  re 
moved  from  the  acting  drama.  Mr.  Stedman 
has  noted  its  remoteness  from  human  in 
terest.  Had  Hovey  had  time  thoroughly  to 
work  over  his  whole  conception,  the  result 
might  have  been  otherwise.  From  his  own 
notes  and  the  commentaries  supplied  by  his 
wife,  it  appears  that  he  intended  the  cycle 
for  production;  and  his  own  practical  train 
ing  as  an  actor  must  be  remembered.  Yet 
to  read  what  we  possess  compels  the  conclu 
sion  that  this  is  noble  dramatic  literature, 
not  thrown  into  the  shape  necessary  to  give 
it  the  proper  effect  under  stage  restrictions. 


1 86          The  New  American  Drama 

The  clear  distinction  to  be  made  between 
all  the  un-actable  dramatic  writing  of  a  gen 
eration  ago  and  that  of  to-day  lies  in  the 
evident  attempt  of  the  younger  writers  to 
become  true  theatre  poets,  that  their  voice 
may  be  heard  in  the  playhouse.  In  short, 
the  poetic  drama  is  trying  to  turn  practicable, 
to  be  dramatic  as  well  as  poetic. 

Mr.  Mackaye's  work,  when  he  essays  po 
etic  form,  illustrates  the  point.  His  verse 
dramas  have  been  staged  by  good  managers 
and  acted  by  distinguished  players;  he  is  an 
American  Stephen  Phillips  in  this  respect. 
The  plays  by  Mr.  Mackaye  are  likely  to  be 
part  of  the  poetic  stage  repertory  just  begin 
ning  to  be  formed  in  this  country.  "A  Gar 
land  for  Sylvia,"  of  mingled  prose  and  verse, 
was  an  early  college  performance  and  can 
hardly  be  included  in  the  list.  But  "Fenris 
the  Wolf"  is  a  powerful,  original  work,  cast 
in  verse  form,  a  re-shaping  of  the  Northern 
myth  in  a  way  to  beget  a  desire  that  it  might 
be  seen  in  the  theatre.  No  doubt  it  would 
lend  itself  less  easily  to  playing  than  the 


Poetry  187 

later  "Jeanne  d'  Arc,"  and  "Sapho  and 
Phaon";  partly  perhaps  because  it  exhibits 
a  more  untried  hand  and  also  from  the  na 
ture  of  the  material.  But  with  revision  and 
condensation,  it  should  be  given  a  hearing 
and  no  doubt  will  be  in  time.  Of  the  two 
other  dramas,  "Jeanne  d'  Arc"  is  much  the 
better  acting  piece,  though  "Sapho  and 
Phaon"  has  greater  beauty,  both  of  concep 
tion  and  execution;  and  is  a  more  original 
work  in  every  way.  Mr.  Mackaye's  treat 
ment  of  the  familiar  French  story  has  ad 
mirable  pictorial  qualities  and  as  it  is  his 
torical  and  belongs  to  the  chronicle  history 
order  of  play,  must  be  judged  according  to 
its  kind.  It  is  perhaps  inevitable  that  it 
should  be  less  dramatic,  more  episodic  and 
less  close-knit  than  the  type  of  story  where 
the  writer  is  not  conditioned  by  facts.  In  its 
kind,  however,  it  is  a  charming  thing  and 
it  achieved  a  considerable  measure  of  suc 
cess  when  enacted  by  the  Sotherns.  Alto 
gether,  it  may  be  said  of  Mr.  Mackaye  as 
a  poet  and  dramatist  that  he  is  among  the 


1 88          The  New  American  Drama 

few  to  whom  we  look  at  any  time  for  possi 
ble  additions  to  a  repertory  altogether  too 
scant. 

A  few  other  young  writers  are  of  promise 
if  not  of  performance,  and  any  season  now 
may  bring  forth  fruit  that  is  worthy.  Agnes 
Lee,  John  G.  Neihardt,  Stark  Young,  Louis 
J.  Block,  Jeannette  Marks,  Martin  Schiitze, 
Mary  Johnston,  and  others  still  have  written 
in  the  form  of  verse  drama  sufficiently  to 
suggest  a  sure  grasp  upon  it  if  they  but  per 
sist  and  choose  to  give  themselves  to  such 
expression.  Miss  Johnston's  "The  Triumph 
of  Reason"  has  been  produced.  Up  to  the 
present,  it  may  be  confessed  that  no  poet  on 
this  side  of  the  water,  with  the  possible  ex 
ception  of  Mr.  Mackaye,  has  as  yet  evinced 
such  familiarity  with  stage  technique  as  that 
possessed  by  Stephen  Phillips  and  W.  B. 
Yeats.  That  this  will  come,  with  the  audi 
ence  to  appreciate  it,  it  is  a  part  of  sane 
patriotism  to  believe. 

The  American  audience  is  not  adverse 
from  Beauty,  so  much  has  been  proved;  the 


Poetry  189 

imaginative  appeal  does  not  go  a-begging 
when  backed  by  the  necessary  skill  and  the 
manager  intelligent  enough  to  give  it  a  hear 
ing;  and  arbitrarily  to  limit  that  appeal  to 
prose  form  would  be  suicidal  to  the  drama 
which  is  a  part  of  letters.  Grant  that  the 
gleaning  so  far  is  comparatively  slight;  at 
least,  there  is  perceptible  growth,  and  to  deny 
that  the  field  shall  yet  whiten  to  the  harvest 
is  to  be  purblind  indeed.  A  quarter  of  a 
century  ago  E.  C.  Stedman  foresaw  the  com 
ing  of  an  American  poetic  drama,  and  he 
spoke  purely  in  a  prophetic  role;  were  he 
writing  now,  he  would  be  the  more  confident 
in  proportion  as  the  goal  is  within  hailing 
distance. 


VIII 

HUMOR  AND  THE  SOCIAL  NOTE 

IT  sounds  trite  enough  to  say  that  American 
drama,  to  be  genuine  and  worth  while,  must 
be  democratic.  But  using  the  word  so  as 
to  include  all  its  implications,  the  remark 
will  bear  scrutiny.  To  be  democratic  in  the 
broadest  sense,  is  to  estimate  human  beings 
for  their  character  and  accomplishment,  in 
dependent  of  all  the  tests  of  convention,  fash 
ion  and  folly.  The  true  democrat,  who 
through  the  machinery  of  government  gets 
his  equal  opportunity  of  influence  compared 
with  others,  when  he  considers  the  social 
instead  of  political  organism,  insists  on  esti 
mating  his  fellow  American  on  the  basis  of 
worth  rather  than  any  form  of  prominence 
due  to  other  causes.  It  might  take  us  too  far 
afield  to  ask  ourselves  to  what  degree  this 
social  ideal  is  lived  up  to  in  a  nominally 
democratic  land  like  the  United  States;  but 

190 


Humor  and  the  Social  Note         191 

to  set  up  a  claim  to  a  distinctive  social  life, 
we  must  at  least  declare  it  to  be  an  ideal, 
recognizable  as  an  aspiration,  and  therefore 
properly  a  subject  for  art. 

And  this  sentiment,  attitude,  belief — what 
ever  name  we  give  it — finds  expression  large 
ly  in  a  humorously  satiric  exposure  of  any 
and  all  exhibitions  of  undemocratic  life, 
which  violate  this  treasured  principle  of 
social  democracy. 

American  humor  in  general,  working  from 
Benjamin  Franklin  to  Mark  Twain  with 
broad  strokes  and  by  means  now  of  shrewd 
Yankee  understatement,  now  of  western  ex 
aggeration,  or  again  of  whimsical  southern 
insouciance,  has  underlying  it  as  a  necessary 
substructure  a  wholesome  sense  of  the  in 
congruity  to  be  seen  whenever  in  a  land 
avowedly  democratic,  aristocratic  standards 
and  conventions  seem  to  prevail.  Humor 
must  be  central  and  important  in  our  drama, 
because  the  greater  includes  the  less,  and  it 
is  central  and  important  in  American  litera 
ture;  some  critics,  in  fact,  would  go  so  far  as 


192          The  New  American  Drama 

to  say  that  it  is  the  dominant  characteristic 
of  our  letters.  In  any  case,  humor  is  a  wel 
come  weapon  in  a  democratic  land,  with 
which  to  fight  all  enemies,  acknowledged  or 
secret,  of  the  principle  of  social  equality. 
That  humor  of  this  kind  is  salient  in  the 
native  playmaking,  is,  I  should  suppose, 
very  obvious;  it  might  be  queried  whether 
it  be  not  the  first  trait  to  be  observed.  And 
it  is  in  the  main  the  sort  of  influence  that  acts 
as  a  healthy  antidote  to  pretence  and  pose. 
Where,  in  its  place,  we  are  given  the  cynical 
wit  that  can  be  recognized  as  an  importation 
from  Europe,  we  have  a  right  to  think  of  it 
as  less  representative,  and  so  less  desirable  in 
the  development. 

It  is  in  their  humorous  comprehension  of 
the  American  type,  in  both  its  weakness  and 
strength,  that  the  plays  of  Ade,  Tarkington, 
Wilson  and  Cohan — allowing  them  to  stand 
for  numerous  others — make  their  legitimate 
appeal  for  our  suffrages.  Whatever  the  short 
comings  in  literary  quality,  technic  and  seri 
ous  criticism  of  life,  they  often  do  possess  an 


Humor  and  the  Social  Note         193 

almost  indescribable  but  most  enjoyable  qual 
ity  of  seeing  through  pretension,  and  making 
it  ridiculous,  which  makes  them  social  docu 
ments  to  be  reckoned  with.  This  is  true,  for 
example,  of  the  spirit  in  which  Ade's  "Father 
and  the  Boys"  is  written;  true  of  the  concep 
tion  of  the  American  in  "The  Man  from 
Home,"  in  Messrs.  Wilson  and  Tarkington's 
hands;  the  European  contrast  may  be  over 
drawn,  but  it  is  quite  unfair  to  the  authors 
not  to  credit  them  with  an  authentic  Ameri 
canism  in  the  feeling  of  the  thing;  and  this 
largely  explains  the  remarkable  vogue  of  the 
piece.  Again  in  Mr.  Cohan's  story  drama 
tization,  "Get  Rich  Quick  Wallingford" 
there  is  an  enjoyably  humorous  perception  of 
certain  American  tendencies  in  finance  and 
business;  as  there  is  in  Mr.  Smith's  "The 
Fortune  Hunter,"  with  its  delightful  sense 
of  self-reliant  optimism  in  the  conductment 
of  affairs.  The  noteworthy  thing  about  such 
work,  academically  treated  as  if  below  con 
tempt,  is  that  it  could  not  have  been  done 
anywhere  else  in  the  world  but  in  America; 


194         The  New  American  Drama 

it  is  really  native  portrayal.  In  earlier  days 
the  instinct  gave  us  the  Bardwell  Slotes  and 
Davy  Crocketts  of  pleasant  memory.  Mr. 
Mackaye  has  contributed  a  daringly  imagina 
tive  type  in  the  one-act  play,  "Sam  Average," 
where  humor  blends  with  pathos  to  make  a 
beautiful  delicate  texture  of  patriotism.  Oc 
casionally,  in  the  past,  as  in  Twain  and 
Warner's  Colonel  Sellers,  humorous  types 
that  depict  national  characteristics  have  been 
transferred  from  fiction  to  the  stage;  it  will 
be  done  more  and  more  in  our  drama  without 
such  borrowing,  as  the  play  by  preference 
absorbs  the  interest  of  the  literary  worker 
and  turns  him  from  the  novel  to  the  stage. 
Such  a  type  as  the  strolling  actor  in  "Your 
Humble  Servant"  was  well  worth  limning; 
since  it  has  passed,  or  is  passing;  and  so  was 
the  southern  gentleman  gambler  of  "Cameo 
Kirby"  by  the  same  authors.  Although  hu- 

Imor  may  not  be  dominant  in  a  character  like 
Stephen  Ghent  in  Mr.  Moody's  "The  Great 
Divide,"  there  are  moments  when  he  finely 
expresses  a  mood  of  the  great  western  plains 


Humor  and  the  Social  Note         195 

containing  this  daredevil  brotherliness  so  full 
of  the  native  flavor.  In  Mr.  Walter's  com 
edy  "Paid  in  Full,"  the  humor  of  the  situa 
tion,  grimly  handled  as  it  is  and  deepening 
toward  tragic  results,  is  nevertheless  the  ele 
ment  of  the  play  which,  by  mitigating  its 
serious  satiric  value,  made  it  a  successful 
Broadway  drama.  Types  adoptively  Amer 
ican,  such  as  may  be  seen  in  Mr.  Locke's 
"The  Climax"  and  Mr.  Klein's  "The  Music 
Master,"  offer  a  fine  field  for  dramatic  ex 
ploitation,  a  field  by  no  means  fully  worked 
as  yet,  but  plainly  appreciated  by  the  younger 
playwrights;  so  that  much  of  interest  and 
value  may  be  forthcoming.  Even  where  the 
drama  runs  to  plot  and  the  complications 
thereof,  and  so  becomes  farce,  it  is  a  shallow 
look  at  plays  like  "Seven  Days"  and  "Baby 
Mine"  that  does  not  detect  some  humorous 
character  drawing  that  smacks  of  the  soil. 
There  is  genuine  and  legitimate  fun  derived 
from  the  contrast  between  New  York  and 
Boston  in  such  a  social  study  as  "Years  of 
Discretion,"  the  Hattons'  clever  comedy;  and 


196         The  New  American  Drama 

the  light  satiric  touch  upon  foolish  fads  of 
the  hour  is  none  the  less  keen.  No  week 
during  the  dramatic  season  in  New  York 
fails  to  reveal  among  the  pieces  struggling  to 
survive  in  a  competition  that  is  too  great  to 
allow  of  justice  for  some  undeserved  failures, 
character  studies  that  are  admirable,  scenes 
that  in  themselves  wellnigh  justify  the  whole 
drama,  happily  conceived  thrusts  at  some  ob 
vious  social  folly  or  wrong:  all  of  it  made 
pleasing  by  the  peculiarly  American  mood 
and  method  with  which  life  is  humorously 
designated.  If  most  often  we  seem  to  get 
lightness  for  its  own  sake — and  there  is  al 
ways  the  likelihood  that  with  our  rich  en 
dowment  in  this  sense  .of  life's  laughable 
incongruities,  we  may  sacrifice  too  much  to 
the  God  of  fun — yet  moments  do  not  lack  in 
contemporary  drama  when  behind  the  good- 
natured  satiric  merriment  can  be  detected  a 
Molierian  intention  to  castigate  folly  and 
correct  social  abuse.  For  humor  is  simply 
the  most  favorable  expression  of  that  social 
sympathy  of  which  the  seriously  emotional 


Humor  and  the  Social  Note         197 

treatment  strikes  the  deeper  note;  the  demo 
cratic  human  relations  are  portrayed  in  both, 
and  humor  has  a  mighty  mission  in  reliev 
ing  the  strain  and  horror  inhering  in  the 
tragic  presentation.  It  is  this  sympathy,  this 
social  altruism,  which  permeates  the  thought 
of  our  better  plays,  just  as  truly  in  comedy 
in  the  way  of  humor,  as  in  the  tragic  por 
trayal  where  the  withers  are  wrung  for  the 
misery  of  fellow  creatures.  It  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  this  social  note  must  be 
sounded  in  vital  drama  at  the  present  time. 
A  profound  influence  upon  literature  has  fol 
lowed  the  ever-growing  sense  of  human 
rights,  which  since  the  late  eighteenth  cen 
tury  has  widened  with  the  process  of  the 
suns.  It  has  meant  for  our  generation  greater 
political  and  social  privileges,  manifold  in 
dustrial  reforms,  the  sharpest  challenging  of 
prerogative  and  privilege,  the  emancipation 
of  women  in  various  ways,  and  the  universal 
spread  of  a  practical  altruistic  interest  in 
fellow  men.  The  social  worker,  as  never 
before,  is  abroad,  and  the  under  dog  in  the 


198          The  New  American  Drama 

social  struggle  is  receiving  an  attention  likely 
to  be  at  once  sympathetic  and  intelligent 
when  compared  with  the  past.  Sympathy  has 
been  organized,  and  the  well-meaning  per 
sonal  desire  to  help,  which  so  often  is  in 
danger  of  radiating  into  thin  air,  now  finds 
its  definite  object  and  direction. 

A  drama  that  is  to  be  vitally  related  to 
its  time  must  therefore  in  some  way  reflect 
and  reproduce  this  typical  manifestation  of 
the  spirit  of  man  to-day.  Fiction  has  been 
doing  this  for  many  years  and  has  because  of 
such  activity,  given  new  proof  of  its  serious 
possibilities.  The  American  play,  to  be 
something  more  than  deft  craftsmanship  and 
meaningless  amusement,  must,  if  it  desires  to 
be  taken  seriously  either  as  art  or  life,  also 
sound  this  ground  chord  of  the  human  har 
mony;  not  only 

the  still  sad  music  of  humanity, 

but,  as  is  natural  to  a  land  like  ours,  its  note 
of  buoyant  belief,  its  cheery  facing  of  the 
future,  and  its  relish  of  inspiring  opportu- 


Humor  and  the  Social  Note         199 

nity.  Has  our  drama,  then,  along  with  its 
more  faithful  depiction  of  local  phenomena 
and  its  occasional  value  as  psychological 
study,  its  homely,  hearty  fun,  as  well  as  its 
refreshing  turning  to  romance  and  poetry  in 
reaction  from  gray  reality,  sounded  this  so 
cial  note  that  expresses  the  time  and  should 
interpret  the  time  in  art?  Are  Americans 
writing  plays  like  Houghton's  "Hindle 
Wakes,"  Sowerby's  "Rutherford  and  Son," 
Galsworthy's  "Justice,"  and  Shaw's  "Mrs. 
Warren's  Profession"?  Replying  impulsive 
ly,  and  as  a  generalization,  the  answer  would 
seem  to  be,  No.  Yet  it  is  not  fair  to  make 
the  assertion  too  sweepingly;  it  hits  nearer 
the  truth  to  say  that,  so  far,  the  British  writ 
ers  have  been  bolder  in  statement,  more  in 
dependent  of  what  the  public  is  supposed  to 
want,  than  have  the  Americans.  Of  course, 
critics  in  plenty  can  be  found  to  declare  that 
it  is  all  the  better  if  our  playwrights  have 
confined  themselves  to  straight  playmaking 
and  eschewed  the  role  of  saviors  of  society 
or  specialists  in  human  pathology.  If  this 


2OO         The  New  American  Drama 

meant  that  the  play  was  lost  sight  of  in  the 
preachment,  or  that  the  flowers  of  rhetoric 
were  substituted  for  genuine  dramatic  ef 
fects,  the  feeling  would  be  entirely  justified. 
There  is  an  argument  against  Ibsen's 
"Ghost"  as  entertainment,  even  if  nothing 
can  be  said  against  it  as  thesis  and  drama 
turgy.  To  take  an  illustration  from  abroad: 
some  of  the  late  plays  of  Brieux,  when  they 
devote  a  last  act  to  discussion,  with  the  story 
quite  over,  may  properly  be  attacked  as  un 
satisfactory  playmaking,  whatever  their  so 
ciological  value. 

But  vital  drama  is  frequently  being  pro 
duced  in  other  lands  to-day  that  does  not  for 
a  moment  forget  the  primary  business  of 
entertainment,  yet  is  most  stimulating  for  its 
suggestive  interpretation  of  life  and  the  im 
plicit  social  sympathy  which  bathes  it  like 
an  atmosphere.  And  in  an  age  such  as  this, 
so  bewilderingly  agitated  with  problem,  ex 
periment  and  aspiration,  drama  cannot  be  rep 
resentative  in  the  deeper  sense,  when  it  com 
fortably  turns  aside  from  all  such  motives  to 


Humor  and  the  Social  Note         201 

follow  the  primrose  path  of  pleasure.  In  so 
far  as  it  is  to  become  a  part  of  sound  literature, 
the  escape  is  impossible. 

It  seems  to  be  modestly  within  the  facts  to 
say  that  the  social  note  has  begun  to  be  heard 
in  our  drama.  Surely,  we  hear  it  in  Mr. 
Kennedy's  work,  in  such  plays  as  Mackaye's 
"To-morrow,"  Patterson's  "Rebellion,"  Wal 
ter's  "The  Easiest  Way,"  Edward  Sheldon's 
"The  High  Road,"  Veiller's  "Within  the 
Law,"  H.  S.  Sheldon's  "The  Havoc," 
Marion  Fairfax's  "The  Talker,"  and  others 
easily  added  by  any  one  who  keeps  watch 
upon  current  theatre  offerings.  Beneath  the 
story,  underlying  the  humor  and  excitement, 
may  be  detected  the  sympathetic  interpreta 
tion  of  some  phase  of  our  common  life,  pri 
vate  or  public,  local  or  national,  separately 
or  as  they  intertwine  to  make  American  des 
tiny.  Fresh,  first-hand  observation  gives 
verity  to  the  picture  which  is  made  enjoyable 
by  the  kindly  tolerant  understanding  behind 
the  scenic  appeal,  or  appeal  of  fable.  In 
deed,  a  convincing  list  of  dramas  could  al- 


2O2          The  New  American  Drama 

ready  be  made  which,  either  by  way  of  main 
plot  or  episodic  to  the  central  theme,  deal 
with  aspects  of  the  general  social  problem. 
To  shut  out  such  motives  from  latter-day 
playmaking  is  like  the  attempt  to  drive 
nature  out  with  a  pitchfork.  Modern  think 
ing,  in  any  form  of  art,  cannot  exist  with 
out  such  admission  of  subject  matter.  The 
Man  with  the  Hoe  must  be  shown  on  can 
vas,  in  marble  or  in  the  written  and  spoken 
word;  the  Song  of  the  Shirt  is  more  insistent 
than  ever,  its  wail  carries  further  over  the 
earth  than  when  Hood  first  chanted  it.  It  is 
of  all  things  most  natural  that  the  drama, 
democratic  people  form  of  story  telling  as  it 
is,  should  respond  in  this  respect  to  the  cur 
rents  of  thought  and  feeling  which  make  our 
time  distinctive;  and  it  has,  I  repeat,  begun 
to  do  so.  Nor  do  I  mean  exclusive  attention 
to  the  proletariat,  an  obsession  with  the  un- 
happier  forms  of  human  misery;  but  rather, 
a  catholic  interest  in  all  the  exhibitions  of 
man's  struggle  with  himself,  with  society,  or 
with  the  forces  of  Nature. 


Humor  and  the  Social  Note         203 

The  test  of  all  such  work  is  sincerity.  One 
observes  with  some  uneasiness,  as  I  have  noted, 
certain  plays  by  Klein,  Walter,  Broadhurst 
and  Belasco,  all  successful  playmakers,  and 
therefore  of  influence  in  the  movement,  in 
which,  although  the  theme  is  there,  the  mate 
rial  appears  to  be  used  solely  for  the  sake  of 
its  dramatic  value  rather  than  because  the  au 
thor  was  inwardly  impelled  to  self-expres 
sion  by  the  questions  of  the  day.  I  do  not 
intend  to  imply  that  a  dramatist  should  not 
above  all  else  choose  his  subject  matter  for 
its  availability  for  stage  purposes;  but  to 
claim  that  behind  the  story  should  hide  an 
unfeigned  wish  to  say  something  on  a  mat 
ter  of  real  import  to  all  honest  Americans. 
No  one,  for  example,  can  doubt  the  sincere 
social  note  in  Galsworthy's  "Strife,"  Zang- 
will's  "The  Melting  Pot,"  or  Hauptmann's 
"The  Weavers" ;  no,  nor,  with  all  its  unpleas 
antness  and  lack  of  dramatic  justification,  in 
Brieux's  "Damaged  Goods."  And  I  seem 
to  find  the  same  sincerity  in  Sheldon's  "Sal 
vation  Nell."  But  one  does  not  feel  so  sure 


204          The  New  American  Drama 

with  regard  to  Moffat's  "The  Battle"  and 
Broadhurst's  "Bought  and  Paid  For,"  and 
still  more  confidently,  must  refuse,  on  this 
ground,  Fitch's  "The  City." 

The  distinction  between  the  exploiter  of 
social  evil  for  its  value  as  copy  and  the  sin 
cere  social  worker,  must  ever  be  borne  in 
mind  by  the  honest  dramatist.  It  is  the 
spurious  substitute,  here  as  in  other  depart 
ments  of  expressional  criticism,  who  seizes 
upon  an  attractive  motive  with  no  personal 
conviction  behind  his  story:  the  conviction 
of  a  Mackaye  or  a  Kennedy.  The  muck- 
raker  and  the  master  of  life  are  not  in  the 
same  category.  The  wrongs  of  the  tenement- 
house  system  may  be  fine  and  perfectly  ac 
ceptable  material  from  which  the  drama  may 
be  wrought,  but  such  a  theme  should  not  be 
chosen  because  of  the  chance  it  offers  for 
sensational  handling.  There  is  a  great  differ 
ence  between  a  play  like  "Things  We 
Create,"  by  Mr.  David  Carb,  one  of  the 
Harvard  playwrights,  and  any  one  of  half 
a  dozen  which  of  recent  years  have  come 


Humor  and  the  Social  Note         205 

and  gone:  all  of  them  stamped  with  the 
same  trade-mark:  made  to  order. 

With  these  distinctions  in  mind,  it  would 
be  instructive  to  compare  three  plays  that 
deal  with  journalism,  the  American  Patter 
son's  "The  Fourth  Estate,"  and  the  two  Eng 
lish  dramas,  Fagin's  "The  Earth,"  and  Ben 
nett's  "What  the  Public  Wants."  The  com 
parison,  I  fear,  is  in  favor  of  the  English; 
because,  while  they  do  not  overlook  the  busi 
ness  of  interesting  and  entertaining  their 
audiences,  they  do  handle  the  theme  in  such 
a  way  as  to  leave  in  the  minds  of  the  auditors 
to  a  greater  degree  some  pertinent  reflections 
upon  the  characteristics  of  modern  news 
paper  life. 

But  with  the  clearer,  stronger  note  that  is 
being  struck  in  modern  drama  generally, 
there  can  be  little  doubt  that  in  America,  as 
elsewhere,  social  sympathy  will  find  fuller 
and  freer  expression,  the  play,  like  the  novel, 
realizing  its  democratic  possibilities.  For 
already  such  motives  are  plainly  being  seized 
as  dramatic  material  superior  to  what  comes 


206          The  New  American  Drama 

from  abroad,  and  to  the  silly  frivolities  and 
unnatural  exaggerations  which  of  old  served 
as  substitutes  for  the  sincere  painting  of 
American  conditions. 

The  paramount  danger  is  haste,  with  its 
resultant  carelessness.  With  so  much  that 
is  richly  open  to  stage  use  in  the  social  spec 
tacle, — contrasts  of  worker  and  idler,  of  man 
and  woman,  of  individual  and  family,  family 
and  state,  of  poverty  and  riches,  of  class  and 
creed,  of  sainthood  and  crime,  it  is  no  wonder 
that  a  dramatist,  confronted  by  the  practical 
necessity  of  earning  his  way,  or  later,  seduced 
by  the  emoluments  of  his  profession,  should 
succumb  to  the  temptation  of  scamping  his 
work.  To  exhibit  the  superficial  aspects  of 
a  situation,  to  invent  melodramatic  incidents 
that  obscure  the  solution  and  to  express  half- 
baked  views  in  place  of  thoughtful  convic 
tions,  if  indeed  the  duty  of  thinking  out  the 
problem  be  not  dodged  entirely,  is  so  often 
quite  sufficient  to  win  applause  and  pelf, 
that  it  is  perhaps  a  counsel  of  perfection  to 
ask  our  playmakers  in  the  present  infancy 
of  their  art,  to  do  more. 


Humor  and  the  Social  Note         2OJ 

And  yet,  more  they  must  do,  in  time,  if 
our  theatre  is  to  be  reckoned  as  a  national 
asset;  the  appeal  to  history  settles  that.  The 
drama  that  survives,  in  whatever  period  and 
of  whatever  race,  is  the  drama  that,  along 
with  adequate  technic  and  the  entertaining 
quality  common  to  all  good  plays,  reveals 
the  spirit  of  the  age,  intellectual,  social, 
spiritual,  and  is  expressed  in  the  literary 
form  which  is  a  preservative  against  the  wear 
and  tear  of  Time. 

If  the  contemporary  dramatist  be  content 
with  tbe  immediate  success  which  unques 
tionably  may  be  secured  without  this  union 
of  attributes;  if  he  prefer  to  produce  a 
vehicle  merely  adjusted  to  the*  idiosyncrasy 
of  an  individual  actor,  and  which  will  die 
with  the  actor  because  unable  to  survive 
through  independent  merit;  if  he  too  hastily 
handle  a  fine  theme,  or  waste  his  skill  upon 
some  empty  trifle  which  tickles  the  senses  of 
fools,  but  lacks  the  body  of  truth  and  the 
breath  of  life,  he  has  made  his  choice. 

But  if,  aside  from  the  lure  of  honorable 
fame,  he  believes  that  the  playwright  should, 


208          The  New  American  Drama 

with  others,  aim  at  good  citizenship,  and  so 
be  glad  to  help  the  civilization  of  his  day 
by  making  his  fellow  men  think  fruitfully 
and  feel  nobly  in  the  playhouse,  then  will 
he  strive  to  make  his  work  worthy,  represen 
tative,  significant:  drama  that  interprets  life 
to  men,  that  while  it  cheers,  instructs,  and 
while  it  entertains,  also  enlarges,  and  pre 
pares  for  more  generous  living. 

We  must  look  fondly  forward  to  such  an 
ideal  for  our  native  theatre;  not  falling  into 
a  position  so  sadly  supine  as  that  expressed  by 
an  English  paper,  quoted  by  Mr.  Henry 
Arthur  Jones:  "The  English  nation  has  made 
up  its  mind  not  to  take  its  drama  seriously"; 
but  realizing  that  an  opinion  like  that  is 
in  principle  very  much  like  giving  up  all 
interest  in  human  development.  And  al 
ready,  dramatists  not  a  few  are  taking  this 
broader,  more  manly,  more  patriotic  view  of 
their  labor;  and  it  is  for  the  public  to  en 
courage  them.  Such  encouragement  they 
must  have,  indeed,  if  play-making  is  to  be, 
not  the  chance  effort  of  the  individual, 


Humor  and  the  Social  Note         209 

trained  or  otherwise,  but  a  recognized  and 
reputable  profession  calling  forth  the  steady 
powers  of  gifted  persons,  rewarded  by  money, 
and  the  respect  of  men,  which  is  more  than 
money. 

And  that  encouragement  means  but  one 
thing:  intelligent  recognition  and  patronage 
on  the  part  of  theatre-goers  in  such  increas 
ing  numbers  as  to  become  an  appreciable 
part  of  the  whole  body  of  those  seeking  en 
tertainment  in  the  playhouse.  We  need  to 
day  a  sense  of  duty  in  play-goers.  I  make 
the  remark  well  aware  that  it  exposes  me 
at  once  to  satire  and  abuse;  but  as  it  appears 
to  me  to  be  true,  let  it  be  spoken.  What  I 
mean  is,  the  intelligent  patron  of  the  theatre 
must,  as  a  matter  of  good  citizenship,  and  a 
partial  expression  of  the  desire  to  see  his 
country  advance  to  a  higher  plane  of  civiliza 
tion,  select  his  plays  for  their  significance 
and  worth,  train  himself  to  know  such,  and 
influence  his  fellow  Americans  whenever 
possible  to  do  the  same.  He  must  ask  for 
intelligent,  broad  minded  managers,  theatre 


2io         The  New  American  Drama 

conductors,  and  co-operative  players.  Also 
must  he  ask  for  trained  and  trustworthy  dra 
matic  critics,  remembering  that  it  is  the 
recognition  of  their  importance  to  the  com 
munity  that  will  advance  them  in  place  and 
power.  All  these  servants  of  the  theatre  are 
creatures  of  the  public,  so  that  the  respon 
sibility  comes  home  to  roost  with  us.  I  shall 
return  to  the  thought  again  later  in  the  dis 
cussion. 

This  is  not  strained  idealism  but  the  home 
liest  common  sense.  The  deep-seated  in 
herited  Puritan  notion,  that  amusement  to 
be  amusing  must  be  disconnected  with  serious 
purpose  and  helpful  influence,  will  sooner  or 
later  go  to  the  scrap-heap  that  awaits  all 
antiquated  ideas.  Why  not  self-consciously 
help  to  make  it  sooner?  To  persist  in  the 
assumption  that  pleasure  implies  irresponsi 
bility  is  to  challenge  God's  plan  in  dowering 
man  with  the  instinct  of  enjoyment  and 
of  joy. 


IX 

FICTION   AND   THE   DRAMA 

IT  would  be  extremely  silly  to  deliver  jere 
miads  at  the  present  day  tendency  to  drama 
tize  fiction  and  refer  to  it  as  one  of  the  signs 
of  degeneracy  in  the  things  of  the  theatre. 
For  it  has  been  steadily  done  from  Eliza 
bethan  times,  with  Shakspere  as  chief  sinner, 
down  to  the  stage  versions  of  "Trilby,"  "Lit 
tle  Women,"  "The  Daughter  of  Heaven" 
and  "Bella  Donna."  As  I  suggested  in  an 
earlier  chapter,  there  is  one  decided  objec 
tion  to  all  such  re-shapings  of  imaginative 
material  from  one  form  to  another;  the  im 
pulse  behind  the  work  is  likely  to  be  prac 
tical,  commercial,  rather  than  creative.  But 
exceptions  will  occur  to  all  veteran  theatre 
goers  and  it  is  dangerous  to  dogmatize. 
"The  Lady  of  the  Camellias,"  it  may  be  re 
called,  was  first  a  piece  of  fiction,  only  sec 
ondarily  a  play  that  time  seems  unwilling  to 

211 


212          The  New  American  Drama 

eliminate;  and  Du  Maurices  famous  story 
when  fitted  by  the  expert  hand  of  Mr.  Rose 
to  stage  requirement,  made  a  really  effective 
drama  which  added  a  valuable  character, 
that  of  Svengali,  to  the  theatre  repertory. 
Kipling's  "The  Light  That  Failed,"  in  the 
stage  version  done  for  Forbes  Robertson, 
disclosed  genuine  dramatic  value;  nor  can 
lack  of  success,  artistic  and  practical,  be 
denied  "The  Dawn  of  a  To-morrow." 

Yet  may  one  assert  with  confidence  that 
it  is  quite  right  to  look  askance  at  any  fiction 
made  over  for  theatrical  use.  The  presump 
tion  is  against  it,  and  the  result  usually  justi 
fies  the  scepticism.  The  novel-born  play  is 
under  suspicion,  even  as  is,  in  the  light  of 
facts,  the  actor-made  drama. 

It  is  natural  enough  that  the  practical  pur 
veyors  of  theatrical  entertainment  should  de 
sire  to  take  advantage  of  the  vogue  of  some 
piece  of  fiction  and  thereby  reduce  the  risk 
of  a  venture  universally  conceded  to  be  at 
the  best  an  expensive  hazard.  And  if  the 
services  of  an  experienced  and  able  play- 


Fiction  and  the  Drama  213 

wright  can  be  secured  and  his  interest  in  the 
job  really  aroused,  there  seems  to  be  no  rea 
son  why  success  should  not  follow,  nor  why, 
occasionally,  a  sound  piece  of  art  might  not 
be  produced.  Certainly  this  happened  in 
the  days  when  Reade  and  Dickens  were  in 
terested  in  the  dramatic  versions  of  their 
works.  Only,  peculiar  difficulties  of  technic 
await  all  such  efforts;  and  it  is  probable  that 
the  journeyman  nature  of  it  will  but  rarely 
attract  first-rate  talent.  The  audience  is 
not  homogeneously  plastic  to  the  play's  first 
impression  upon  them,  because  a  part  of 
it  at  least  has  preconceptions  of  the  story 
in  novel  form;  much  has  to  be  omitted,  new 
material  perhaps  introduced,  and  very  likely 
a  new  orientation  established  in  order  that 
a  character,  before  minor,  may  be  made  cen 
tral  in  the  dramatic  weave.  The  problem 
thus  becomes  a  mixed  one;  and  the  play 
wright's  work  would  be  much  easier  could 
he  assume  complete  ignorance  of  the  story 
on  the  part  of  the  audience  as  a  whole;  or 
else  premise  that  every  member  of  it  had 


214          The  New  American  Drama 

read  the  story  before  witnessing  the  play. 
As  it  is,  he  may  fall  between  the  two  stools. 
Thoroughly  equipped  playwrights  have  as 
sured  us  that  the  hardest  work  they  ever 
attempted  lay  here. 

There  is,  however,  nothing  whatever 
alarming  in  the  frequent  attempts  to-day  to 
turn  fiction  into  theatre  entertainment.  For 
not  only  has  it  always  been  done,  but  there 
is,  in  the  implied  connection  of  a  form  of 
printed  letters  with  the  stage,  an  assumption 
that  the  drama  is,  or  can  be,  literature; 
which  is  a  good  thing  for  the  theatre,  espe 
cially  in  an  age  when  people  have  formed 
the  habit  of  divorcing  the  two  in  their 
thoughts.  And  in  the  second  place,  the 
dramatization  of  fiction  is  not  increasing,  but 
diminishing  as  more  and  more  our  play 
wrights  are  supplying  the  managers  with  plays 
at  first-hand  and  making  the  appeal  to  fiction 
less  excusable  or  necessary  to  keep  the  play 
houses  busy. 

The  reverse  process,  that  of  novelizing 
plays,  is  more  common  than  it  was  a  few 


Fiction  and  the  Drama  215 

years  since  and  is  so  frankly  unliterary  and 
mercantile  as  to  be  self-explanatory.  It  is 
a  way,  of  course,  of  popularizing  a  play  and 
may  have  a  certain  practical  excuse  for  being 
in  relation  to  the  cheaper  magazines.  On 
the  whole,  it  may  be  safely  left  to  live  out 
a  Philistine  function  unrelated  absolutely  to 
any  serious  consideration  of  stage  literature 
and  an  unpleasant  phenomenon  to  all  who 
think  of  the  stage  as  having  any  relation  to 
letters  and  art.  Such  work  is  hack  work, 
pure  and  simple,  and  can  be  nothing  more. 
But  back  of  all  fluctuations  in  the  drama 
tized  novel  or  novelized  play,  there  is  a 
question  of  critical  interest  and  importance: 
what  are  the  comparative  merits  of  play 
and  novel  as  twin  forms  of  story  telling? 
Does  literary  history  ofter  an  answer?  Is 
there  any  significance  in  the  fact  that  for 
more  than  a  generation,  the  novel  so-called 
has  occupied  the  central  place  of  interest  and 
audience?  And  in  the  other  fact,  that  now 
for  the  past  few  years,  the  play  gives  evi 
dent  signs  of  gaining  on  fiction,  so  that  it 


216          The  New  American  Drama 

looks  as  if  it  might  in  time  resume  the  im 
perious  sway  which  it  exercised  in  the  spa 
cious  days  of  good  Queen  Bess?  Surely, 
these  queries  are  pertinent  and  stimulating, 
if  there  be  such  a  thing  as  the  evolution  of 
literature  and  its  relation,  social  and  psycho 
logic,  to  its  particular  period. 

It  were  pleasant,  to  fit  a  convenient  theory, 
if  we  could  roundly  assert  that  prose  narra 
tion,  the  primitive  oral  telling  of  story,  came 
first  in  time,  and  drama,  stage  story  en 
acted  by  the  aid  of  action,  word,  gesture  and 
scene,  belonged  to  a  later  period.  But  this 
can  by  no  means  be  easily  proved.  Some 
of  the  Biblical  narratives  take  us  back  many 
hundreds  of  years  before  Christ;  but  there 
is  reason  for  believing  that  the  Chinese 
drama  is  full  as  ancient.  I  may  be  allowed 
to  quote  words  of  my  own  printed  in  another 
place:  "Of  the  three  ways  of  story  telling, 
by  the  epic  poem,  the  drama  and  prose 
fiction,  the  epic  seems  to  be  the  oldest; 
poetry,  indeed,  being  the  natural  form  of 
expression  among  primitive  peoples.  The 


Fiction  and  the  Drama  217 

comparative  study  of  literature  shows  that 
so  far  as  written  records  go,  we  may  not 
surely  ascribe  precedence  in  time  either  to 
fiction  or  the  drama.  The  testimony  varies 
in  different  nations." 

Be  this  as  it  may,  it  is  a  question  entirely 
secondary  compared  with  the  broader  and 
deeper  one  which  asks  why  fiction  in  the 
novel  form  has  been  so  long  dominant,  and 
why  it  now  seems  to  be  giving  way  a  little 
to  the  play;  and  whether  back  of  this  there 
are  any  advantages  which  inhere  in  one 
form  as  against  the  other. 

Both  are  obviously  alike  in  the  wish  to 
depict  life  in  terms  of  a  unified  narrative 
which  possesses  growth  to  a  definite  end. 
And  the  novel  usurped  the  field  of  serious 
treatment  of  life,  first,  because  from  its 
nature  and  the  nature  of  its  audience,  it 
could  come  closer  to  reality  than  the  play, 
tell  the  truth  about  it  more  subtly  and 
deeply  than  a  form  which,  conventionally, 
traditionally,  was  or  seemed  obliged  to  di 
vorce  itself  from  life,  and  hand  down  a  cer- 


218          The  New  American  Drama 

tain  stock  substitution  for  it.  In  short,  fiction 
became  psychologic  before  the  drama,  be 
cause  it  was  in  nature  and  method  a  more 
psychologic  mode  of  literary  expression  and 
so  tallied  with  the  modern  tendency.  It 
could,  by  indirection,  analysis,  episodic 
handling,  repetition  and  emphasis  upon  the 
details  so  influential  to  create  atmosphere 
(in  contrast  with  the  main  facts  that  make 
plot),  interpret  the  human  show  in  a  way 
far  more  satisfactory  to  any  age  so  intro 
spective,  so  interested  in  character,  as  our 
own.  Hence,  the  novel  grasped  this  oppor 
tunity  and  did  wonderful  things  with  it  for 
half  a  century  or  more;  nay,  is  still  in  the 
midst  of  a  fruitful  achievement. 

But  it  was  reserved  for  very  recent  years 
to  witness  the  awakening  of  the  drama  to 
the  possibility  of  reclaiming  from  fiction 
the  study  of  character  that  is  more  than  the 
rapid,  superficial  indication  of  some  single 
trait;  that  gives  a  sense  of  the  complexity 
and  infinite  variety  of  human  beings.  The 
play  began  to  be  psychologic,  despite  the 


Fiction  and  the  Drama  219 

limitation  of  its  method,  the  disadvantage 
under  which  it  works  in  comparison  with 
fiction.  The  change  was  furthered  by  novel 
ists  of  repute  who  turned  from  fiction  to  the 
drama;  as  where  in  England,  Mr.  Barrie, 
Mr.  Galsworthy  and  Mr.  Bennett  essayed 
successfully  the  new  form;  or  in  this  coun 
try,  Mr.  Davis,  Mr.  Tarkington  and  Mr. 
Wilson  and  Mr.  Ade  made  the  same  attempt, 
with  less  certainty  of  achievement,  yet  in 
some  instances  with  hopeful  results.  But 
the  novelist  in  various  lands  is  learning  the 
technic  so  different  from  his  own  and  may 
be  counted  on  as  a  factor  in  making  the  play 
psychologic.  And,  to  assist  him  in  the  de 
velopment,  playwrights  who  have  not  writ 
ten  fiction  have  recognized  the  opportunity 
and  striven  to  give  more  depth  and  body  to 
their  characterization. 

The  drama  was  confronted  with  the  diffi 
cult  task  of  accepting  the  conventions  of 
the  stage,  so  much  more  stringent  than  those 
of  fiction,  and,  in  spite  of  them,  setting  forth 
human  character  with  much  of  the  loving 


220         The  New  American  Drama 

regard  for  the  smaller  denotements  which 
unite  to  make  the  whole  impression  of  per 
sonality.  And  doing  this,  the  dramatists 
took  unto  themselves  the  advantage  of  this 
genre,  for  the  gain  is  there,  to  offset  the  diffi 
culty:  the  directness  of  the  form,  its  en 
forced  elimination  of  non-essentials,  its  preg 
nant  presentation  within  confines  of  space 
and  time  the  very  condensation  of  which 
should  produce  an  effect  of  heat  and  light. 
It  is  possible  to  be  languid  in  movement  in 
a  psychological  novel  of  value ;  to  be  languid 
in  an  acceptable  play  spells  ruin.  The  older 
play  was  superior  to  the  novel  in  objectivity, 
speed  and  salient  emphasis,  but  lagged  far 
behind  it  in  truth  and  the  power  of  revealing 
psychic  states.  But  the  new  school,  under 
the  influence  of  Ibsen  in  Europe,  and  in 
England  led  by  Shaw  and  those  who  have 
followed  him, — Barker,  Galsworthy,  Bennett 
— have  dared  to  put  greater  stress  upon  the 
things  within,  upon  interests  of  the  mind  and 
spirit,  and  thus  have  brought  a  new  dignity 
to  the  stage.  They  have  borrowed  from 


Fiction  and  the  Drama  221 

fiction  to  enrich  drama.  That  they  have  at 
times  sacrificed  too  much  in  the  way  of  plot, 
or  have  found  trouble  in  subtleizing  character 
ization  to  a  point  that  obscures  the  type,  may 
be  readily  granted.  But  the  gain  is  more 
than  compensatory.  The  drama  can  never 
do  what  is  within  the  natural  scope  of  fiction; 
it  can  never  exhibit  not  only  the  dominant 
human  qualities  and  characteristics  but  the 
differentiating  peculiarities  which  separate 
soul  from  soul,  differences  which  often  do 
not  appear  upon  the  surface  at  all.  But  it 
certainly  can  reveal  psychology  with  greater 
thoroughness  than  of  old  and  refuse  to  maul 
it  about  under  the  exigency  of  plot  or  the 
restrictions  of  technic  until  what  should  be 
a  human  being  becomes  a  lay  figure.  And  in 
this  matter  of  closer  characterization,  the 
American  stage  may  now  lay  claim  to  prog 
ress.  In  the  past,  salient  character  portrayal 
was  more  frequent  than  good  technic  or 
value  of  idea.  "Colonel  Sellers"  may  not  be 
a  good  play  and  its  joints  would  no  doubt 
creak  painfully  to-day,  but  Colonel  Sellers 


222        .  The  New  American  Drama 

the  personality,  as  I  have  already  noted,  is  a 
genuine  creation  and  a  permanent  figure. 
He  stands  for  a  type  our  civilization  has 
produced  and  illustrates  a  phase  of  Ameri 
can  life  that  art  should  seek  to  perpetuate. 
Davy  Crockett  is  another  such  in  earlier 
playmaking,  and  a  few  outstanding  figures 
there  are  to  mark  this  welcome  instinct  in 
our  dramatists,  early  and  late;  welcome,  be 
cause  true,  thoughtful  character  creation  is 
the  only  basis  for  a  stage  that  would  be  more 
than  ephemeral. 

I  should  venture  the  opinion  that  the 
contemporary  American  dramatist  already 
exhibited  in  this  respect  a  praiseworthy  ten 
dency,  if  it  be  not  his  strongest  claim  to  at 
tention.  He  is  now  reproducing  with  sym 
pathetic  insight  a  considerable  range  of  char 
acters,  studied  with  something  of  the  care 
suggested  to  the  stage  by  fiction.  The  New 
York  capitalist,  the  social  idler,  the  western 
plainsman,  the  southern  senator,  the  strug 
gling  city  clerk,  the  country  boy  corrupted 
by  town  life,  the  gambler,  the  thief  and  the 


Fiction  and  the  Drama  223 

harlot,  the  woman  of  ancestry  and  the  woman 
with  a  past,  the  woman  worker  and  the 
woman  wanton,  the  American  foreign-de 
rived,  in  any  one  of  his  almost  infinite  varia 
tions:  in  short,  the  types  that  make  up  our 
seething  population  as  in  its  fascinating  re 
adjustments  it  settles  into  social  distinctions, 
are  being  portrayed  on  our  stage  by  Thomas, 
Klein,  Walter,  Sheldon,  Mackaye,  Moody 
and  many  more,  and  their  work  has  been 
sufficiently  faithful  to  remind  us  of  the  serv 
ice  the  stage  can  perform  in  this  way;  hold 
ing  up  to  our  gaze  as  in  a  mirror  a  national 
life  so  vast  and  diversified  that  the  stay-at- 
home  (if  such  there  be  in  the  United  States) 
can  hardly  be  expected  to  comprehend  it 
without  the  aid  of  the  arts. 

If  dramatic  characterization  must  always 
lose  somewhat  of  the  Meissonier-like  detail 
of  the  novel  in  the  hands  of  a  James,  a  De 
Morgan  and  a  Bennett,  there  can  be  the  com 
mensurate  gain  of  saliency  and  visualization. 
Moliere's  characters  live  alongside  of  Bal 
zac's;  the  bridge  between  fiction  and  drama 


224         The  New  American  Drama 

is  not  impassable,  given  genius  in  the  stage 
story  teller  and  the  literary  habit  in  relation 
to  stage  literature  in  the  reader. 

We  have  gone  far  enough  in  the  exploita 
tion  of  native  character  in  the  theatre  to 
stimulate  the  imagination  to  a  picture  of 
what  may  come,  when  with  hand  thoroughly 
trained  and  a  clearer  vision  of  his  aim  and 
opportunity,  the  dramatist  shall  do  his  work 
in  that  loving  spirit  which  means  human 
sympathy  joined  with  the  sternest  self  criti 
cism  and  an  insistence  upon  being  true  to 
his  metier  and  satisfying  his  sternest  critic — 
himself. 

Every  self-respecting  dramatist,  like  any 
other  artist,  must  write  to  please  just  one 
person — himself. 

To  say  this,  is  to  court  trouble.  "What," 
cry  those  insistent  on  the  drama  as  a  people's 
institution,  "would  you  adopt  a  motto  so  aris 
tocratic,  removed  and  egoistic  as  this?  To 
do  so,  is  to  strike  at  the  very  roots  of  dramatic 
art  life." 

As    I    mean    the    statement,    not    at    all. 


Fiction  and  the  Drama  22$ 

Rightly  interpreted,  the  apparent  antagonism 
between  this  and  the  democratic  ideal  dis 
appears.  Honesty  is,  root  and  branch,  the 
life  of  all  worthy  creative  endeavor;  to  do 
his  best,  to  be  himself,  the  artist  simply  must 
"draw  the  thing  as  he  sees  it,"  quite  irrespec 
tive  of  whether  another  human  being  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  sees  it  as  does  he.  But  with 
this  necessity  of  being  true  to  his  vision  goes, 
as  a  corollary,  the  obligation  to  be  at  the 
same  time  expressive  of  the  human  race; 
which  the  artist  (dramatist,  poet,  painter, — 
it  matters  not,)  will  be,  if  he  lives  up  to 
his  high  calling  and  be  neither  a  freak  nor 
a  fraud,  but  truly  a  representative  of  man 
kind. 

Here  is  where  the  moral  obligation  of  art 
comes  in;  no  writer  can  dodge  it.  He  must 
in  his  work  represent  in  such  wise  as  to  stand 
for  humanity  at  large  and  offer  the  essentials 
of  the  human  reaction  to  life.  And  in  so  far  as 
he  does  this  and  just  in  proportion  as  he  sums 
up  in  his  own  person  the  universal  case,  will 
he  become  one  to  reckon  with.  He  will, 


226         The  New  American  Drama 

while  looking  into  his  heart  to  write,  be  at 
the  same  time  looking  into  the  general  heart 
of  his  fellow  beings.  And  so,  what  at  first 
seemed  egocentric  and  exclusive,  will  be  seen 
to  be  sympathetic,  altruistic,  democratic.  Be 
your  best  self,  and  inevitably,  you  become  the 
best  self  of  your  kind;  and  yet,  shall  add 
something  else  to  the  expression  of  humanity 
in  its  universal  traits:  to  wit,  the  individual 
interpretation  which  is  the  one  precious  thing 
which  you  or  anyone  can  contribute  to 
others;  a  contribution  which  depends,  O  how 
sternly  and  surely,  upon  absolute  fidelity  to 
the  personal  vision,  dream,  ideal.  Every 
honest  worker  must  apply  to  himself  Mr. 
Galsworthy's  weighty  words:  "He  can  only 
express  himself  sincerely  by  not  consider 
ing  the  public  at  all." 

And  no  artist  of  them  all  needs  to  embrace 
this  creed  more  whole-heartedly  than  the 
dramatist,  with  a  consideration  of  the  audi 
ence  so  continually  dinned  into  his  ears.  Let 
him  consider  the  audience  as  to  the  ways  and 
means  of  his  message,  the  technic  of  his  craft, 


Fiction  and  the  Drama  227 

yes;  but  let  the  message  itself  be  his  own, 
delivered  with  the  fervor  that  means  convic 
tion,  without  fear  or  favor.  Though  the 
hands  be  the  hands  of  Esau,  let  the  voice  be 
that  of  Jacob. 

It  looks  as  if  the  American  dramatist  was 
awakening  to  this  view  of  his  work:  the 
absolute  necessity  of  honest  vision.  Mr. 
Klein  has  lately  gone  to  London  to  reside, 
and  the  reason  he  gave  for  doing  so  was 
significant.  "I  believe  that  the  trouble  with 
the  American  playwright,"  he  declared,  "is 
that  he  lives  too  close  to  the  conditions  under 
which  he  works.  He  becomes,  so  to  speak, 
the  mouthpiece  of  the  manager  and  the  the 
atrical  speculator."  And  he  goes  on  to  say 
that  he  wishes  to  get  away  "from  the  rever 
berations  of  Broadway."  This  desire  to  get  a 
perspective  on  one's  labor  and  shake  off  the 
tests  of  the  mart,  will  grow  among  our  play 
wrights  as  the  more  intelligent  audience 
grows  with  them. 

And  in  the  relation  of  novel  and  play  as 
twin  forms  of  story  making,  each  can  learn 


228         The  New  American  Drama 

from  the  other,  the  play  from  fiction  no  less 
than  fiction  from  the  play.  And  in  the  point 
of  patronage,  the  outlook  for  the  latter  seems 
increasingly  bright. 


X 

IDEA  IN  DRAMA 

PEOPLE  who  very  properly  cling  to  the  notion 
that  the  stage  is  for  amusement,  become 
greatly  alarmed  at  any  suggestion  that  a  play 
should  contain  an  idea.  They  remind  one 
of  a  horse  who,  safely  guarded  by  blinders, 
shies  instinctively  when  anything  unwonted 
comes  within  his  view.  A  mere  hint,  with 
the  suitable  mildness  and  timidity,  that  a 
play  is  none  the  worse  for  having  behind 
the  story  a  definite  opinion  about  life,  one 
that  is  vital  and  worth  considering  after  the 
fable  has  perhaps  quite  faded  out  of  memory, 
and  you  are  hailed  as  an  uncomfortable  in- 
tellectualist  whose  development  of  forehead 
is  but  the  outward  mark  of  a  disagreeable 
excess  of  mental  activity.  Such  a  one  is  an 
impractical  and  impertinent  meddler  in  the 
theatre  mart,  where  it  must  constantly  be 

229 


230         The  New  American  Drama 

remembered  that  the  demands  of  the  many 
rule,  and  there  is  no  place  for  mistaken 
idealists. 

The  American  stage,  with  its  present 
wholesome  eagerness  for  better  things,  is  still 
in  its  nonage  with  respect  to  this  matter. 
Dramatists  are  coming  forward  in  increasing 
numbers  who  desire  to  express  themselves 
more  freely  in  terms  of  the  play  and  to  give 
it  the  dignity  and  beauty  of  a  true  narration 
of  men  and  women  as  they  arc  or  hope  to 
be  on  earth.  Nor  has  the  public  shown  itself 
averse  from  drama  that  has  cared  to  com 
ment  upon  some  of  the  thousandfold  conse 
quences  of  human  action.  But  we  have  not 
yet  reached  that  place  in  the  progress  where 
dramatist,  manager  and  theatre-goer  come 
together  openly,  consciously,  with  the  ac 
knowledged  purpose  of  collaborating  in  a 
form  of  entertainment  which,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  has  affiliations  with  the  thinking  life 
of  the  community.  This  juncture  occurs  even 
now,  but  sporadically.  The  fact  that  they 
do  in  their  work  enter  somewhat  into  this 


Idea  In  Drama  231 

thinking  life  is  what  gives  significance  to 
the  work  of  Moody  and  Mackaye,  Kennedy 
and  Peabody,  Walter,  Sheldon  and  a  few 
others.  Some  of  these  writers  cherish  it  as 
an  aim;  others  are  more  intermittent  in  their 
devotion ;  that  they  do  it  at  all,  that  they  and 
others  of  the  younger  workers  who  with  each 
new  season  are  revealed  as  candidates  for  a 
hearing,  have  the  courage  to  make  their  labor 
something  more  than  a  stop  gap  for  idlers, 
is  the  hopeful  aspect  of  the  present  activity 
in  our  theatre  life. 

Many  things  irritate:  the  offence  of  ticket 
speculation,  the  inequalities  of  theatrical 
monopoly,  the  public  disregard  of  the  differ 
ence  between  personality  and  impersonation 
in  the  actor's  art,  the  absence  of  sound  and 
serious  dramatic  criticism  and  the  persistent 
conservatism  of  managers  in  the  recognition 
of  the  new.  But  all  this  can  be  endured 
and  in  time  done  away  with,  if  only,  and  in 
increasing  numbers,  the  American  dramatist 
shall  assert  his  right  and  wish  to  interpret 
life  through  his  work.  The  expert  in  ex- 


232          The  New  American  Drama 

plaining  the  laws  of  the  drama  to  one  who 
is  fain  to  master  its  technic,  reduces  the 
thing  to  a  formula  and  a  proposition,  so- 
called.  Back  of  the  story  he  teaches,  is  the 
way  of  telling  it  and  the  thought  which  it 
propounds.  In  "Camille,"  for  example,  we 
have  the  folowing:  A  certain  harlot  hon 
estly  falls  in  love  with  a  young  man  of  social 
position.  The  young  man  clings  to  her, 
against  the  will  of  his  father,  who  desires  for 
him  a  suitable  parti.  What  will  the  harlot 
do?  What  she  does  do,  to  wit,  side  with  the 
father,  break  off  the  connection,  and  die,  is 
what  makes  the  appealing  story  which,  in 
spite  of  the  sentimental,  lachrymosal  treat 
ment  of  this  type  of  woman,  still  keeps  the 
play  a  hardy  perennial  of  the  playhouse. 
And  the  idea  about  life  beneath  it  all,  what 
the  thoughtful  auditor  takes  away  with  him, 
is  the  query  whether  we  have  not  been  shal 
low  and  hasty  in  judgment  upon  this  class 
of  human  beings.  There  is  no  pompous, 
philosophical  color  to  an  idea  thus  implied. 
The  insistence  upon  proposition  in  a  play, 


Idea  in  Drama  233 

what  is  it  but  a  concession  that  the  backbone 
of  any  drama  is  idea?  All  human  beings  in 
their  reaction  to  life,  receive  certain  recur 
rent  impressions  about  this  and  that  which 
finally  crystallize  into  beliefs,  convictions,  or 
if  you  prefer,  prejudices.  At  least,  these 
opinions  stand  for  what  they  have  learned 
from  living,  or  think  they  have  learned. 
Show  them  anything  in  a  work  of  art  which 
refers  to  this  experience,  or  bears  any  rela 
tion  whatsoever  to  it,  and  they  will  prick  up 
their  ears  and  give  evidence  of  awakened 
interest.  They  are  eager  to  compare  notes  in 
this  way  with  another  human  being,  the 
artist,  to  see  if  his  conclusions  tally  with  their 
owrn.  There  is  a  sense  of  companionship  in 
this  laying  of  heads  together;  and  in  the  case 
of  a  play,  whenever  such  an  idea  about  life, 
personal  yet  broadly  applicable  because  so 
human,  is  embodied  therein,  the  play  will 
have  to  be  a  very  bad  play  not  to  arouse  in 
terest  in  a  general  audience.  It  hardly  needs 
to  say  that  if  the  idea  does  not  dovetail  with 
general  experience,  or  is  not  hidden  in  a  story 


234         The  New  American  Drama 

that  is  attractive  and  plausible,  or  is  so 
clumsily  manufactured  that  idea  is  smothered 
in  story,  or  if  there  be  lack  of  story,  all  these 
things  will  militate  against  success.  But 
there  is  no  contradiction  of  the  principle  that 
idea  as  such  is  fundamental.  I  for  one 
sincerely  believe  that  more  dramas  fail  be 
cause  of  the  want  of  a  single,  clear,  dominant 
and  consistent  idea  than  for  any  other  one 
reason, — save  that  of  sheer  inexpertness. 
Even  when  the  hand  is  unsure  and  the  artistic 
result  sadly  imperfect,  if  the  arresting  idea 
(I  carefully  dodge  the  terrible  word,  thesis) 
be  present,  it  may  serve  to  overcome  all  the 
defects.  Mr.  Browne's  "Everywoman"  is 
certainly  no  masterpiece  either  of  literature 
or  craftsmanship;  indeed  it  may  more  fitly 
be  described  as  a  triumph  of  mediocrity  in 
every  particular  of  playmaking.  Yet  it  ap 
peals  widely,  and  not  alone  to  the  heedless 
multitude,  I  have  found,  but  to  many  not 
unintelligent  auditors;  because,  with  a  too 
obvious  definiteness,  it  embodies  the  idea  of 
the  eternal  warfare  between  the  flesh  and 


Idea  In  Drama  235 

the  spirit,  as  did  its  far  superior  proto 
type,  "Everyman."  Behind  all  the  mawkish 
pseudo-ethics  and  shrewd  pandering  to  pop 
ular  taste  in  such  a  spectacle,  there  is  an  idea, 
however  manhandled,  and  this  carries  it  to 
success.  "Everywoman"  might  be  described 
as  the  right  thing  done  in  the  wrong  \vay. 

The  underlying  unity  thus  secured — for 
nothing  makes  for  unity  in  the  drama  like 
an  idea  clearly  conceived  and  consistently 
clung  to  throughout  the  play — often  gives  a 
value  to  contemporary  work  that  is  open  to 
criticism  in  many  details.  Miss  Crothers's 
"Three  of  Us"  is  pleasantly  remembered  for 
its  freshness  and  honesty.  Yet  the  scene  in 
the  room  at  midnight  when  a  woman  puts 
herself  in  a  man's  power  to  blast  her  reputa 
tion  is  so  old  and  stale  as  to  make  the  sophis 
ticated  smile.  It  is  the  enjoyable  truth  of  the 
type,  the  idea  of  woman's  mission  in  holding 
together  the  family  under  untoward  circum 
stances,  with  its  exhibition  of  resourceful 
courage  and  independence,  which  gives  this 
unpretentious  drama  its  note  of  the  modern. 


236          The  New  American  Drama 

The  author  had  an  idea,  she  had  a  definite 
sympathetically  conceived  character  such  as 
our  day  has  evolved  or  is  evolving;  the 
rest  did  not  so  much  matter.  Similarly,  in 
Eleanor  Gates's  "The  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl," 
with  its  capital  chance  for  fantastic  comedy, 
the  underlying  suggestion  behind  of  a  danger 
in  the  conventional  upbringing,  interweaves 
with  the  imaginative  fun  to  add  raison  d'etre 
to  its  existence,  and  make  a  thoughtful  mem 
ory  after  the  play  is  over.  Similarly,  I  be 
lieve  that  in  Margaret  Mayo's  pleasantly  ro 
mantic  comedy,  "Polly  of  the  Circus,"  there 
is  a  definite  social  criticism  that  gives  it  back 
bone. 

Mr.  Winchell  Smith  is  an  expert  young 
playwright  with  a  pleasing  Americanism 
about  him,  and  gives  assurance  of  stronger 
work  to  come.  His  "The  Only  Son"  failed; 
why?  It  was  an  interesting,  clean-cut  and 
technically  well-made  play.  In  a  drama  so 
genuine  and  legitimate  in  its  appeal,  there 
must  have  been  something  wrong  with  the 
idea  or  handling  of  the  idea,  unless  we  ac- 


Idea  in  Drama  237 

cept  the  explanation  that  certain  untoward 
conditions  surrounded  the  production  of  the 
piece,  quite  aside  from  its  merits  or  demerits. 
Was  it  not  a  certain  unreality  or  false  note 
in  the  drawing  of  the  mother,  who,  as  erring 
wife  restored  to  the  husband  through  the 
mediation  of  the  son,  does  not  quite  ring 
true?  The  idea  of  a  son  standing  by  a 
mother  when  she  most  needs  it  is  so  fine, 
heart-warming  and  true,  that  if  it  fails  in 
embodiment,  a  reason  must  be  found  in  the 
violation  of  the  truth  in  the  relations  of  the 
three  central  characters.  In  brief,  the  idea 
was  blurred,  weakened  in  credibility  by  a 
slip  in  psychology.  Mr.  Jules  Goodman's 
"Mother" — the  mother  motive  has  been 
amply  used  by  the  young  school — gave  much 
satisfaction  to  many  auditors,  and  its  pur 
pose,  to  exhibit  the  self  sacrificing  devotion 
of  woman  in  the  family,  deserves  nothing 
but  approval.  But  when,  in  order  to  show 
this  type,  the  mother  is  made  to  ignore  moral 
distinctions,  she  is  sentimentalized  out  of 
credence  and  so  cheapened  in  her  presumed 


238          The  New  American  Drama 

heroism  as  to  make  the  tears  she  freely  draws 
a  credit  to  the  heart  perhaps,  but  hardly  to 
the  intelligence.  Again,  a  good  idea  is  in 
jured  by  the  failure  to  base  it  on  thoroughly 
sound  psychology.  It  will  not  do  at  all  to 
say  when  confronted  with  such  cases,  that 
women  are  "kittle  cattle,"  and  human  nature 
in  general  does  not  show  the  consistency  we 
demand.  It  is  a  question  of  convincing, 
and  of  securing  the  sympathy  which  is 
founded  upon  that  conviction;  if  the  char 
acter  lacks  consistency,  it  may  be  life,  but  it 
is  not  good  drama.  A  sharp  distinction  may 
be  drawn  between  all  such  portrayal  of 
motherhood  and  that  implied  in  Tennyson's 
"Rizpah,"  or  Kipling's  "Mother  o'  Mine." 
Even  a  mother's  all-for-love  must  have  a 
recognition  of  the  stern  laws  of  life.  Love 
conquers  all — but  common  sense. 

Like  all  other  words  used  by  man,  idea 
has  connotations  that  make  it  misleading. 
To  talk  of  idea  in  drama  may  imply  a  sort 
of  hard  intellectualization  of  an  art  form 
intended  for  the  democratic  delight  of  the 


Idea  In  Drama  239 

multitude;  or  may  even  suggest  metaphysics 
in  place  of  amusement.  Nothing  is  further 
from  my  intention  in  its  use  here.  Neither 
conscious  didacticism,  nor  heady  argument 
nor  preachment  in  disguise  lies  in  the 
thought  that  the  play  can  be  clarified, 
strengthened  and  made  lasting  on  the  mental 
side  by  a  centralizing  view  of  life;  even  as 
on  the  esthetic  side  it  can  be  conserved  by 
style  which  preserves  and  the  architecture 
which  gives  solid  foundation.  That  Ameri 
can  critic  who  is  still  perhaps  our  greatest 
and  who  occupies  the  position  because  he 
humanized  thinking  and  never  lost  his  sense 
of  values  nor  his  sense  of  humor,  James 
Russell  Lowell,  with  Shakspere  as  his 
quarry,  once  wrote  these  words,  that  come 
aptly  to  mind  here:  "But  the  primary 
object  of  a  tragedy  is  not  to  inculcate  a 
formal  moral.  Representing  life,  it  teaches, 
like  life,  by  indirection,  by  those  nods  and 
winks  that  are  thrown  away  on  us  blind 
horses  in  such  profusion.  We  may  learn,  to 
be  sure,  plenty  of  lessons  from  Shakspere. 


240          The  New  American  Drama 

.  .  .  but  I  do  not  believe  that  he  wrote  his 
plays  with  any  such  didactic  purpose.  He 
knew  human  nature  too  well  not  to  know 
that  one  thorn  of  experience  is  worth  a 
whole  wilderness  of  warning;  that  where 
one  man  shapes  his  life  by  precept  and  ex 
ample,  there  are  a  thousand  who  have  it 
shaped  for  them  by  impulse  and  circum 
stances.  He  did  not  mean  his  great  trag 
edies  for  scarecrows,  as  if  the  nailing  of  one 
hawk  to  the  barn  door  would  prevent  the 
next  from  coming  down  souse  into  the  hen 
yard.  No,  it  is  not  the  poor  bleaching  vic 
tim  hung  up  to  moult  its  draggled  feathers 
in  the  rain  that  he  wishes  to  show  us.  He 
loves  the  hawk  nature  as  well  as  the  hen 
nature;  and  if  he  is  unequalled  in  anything, 
it  is  in  that  sunny  breadth  of  view,  that  im 
pregnability  of  reason,  that  looks  down  on 
all  ranks  and  conditions  of  men,  with  the 
equal  eye  of  the  pure  artist." 

And  the  modern  dramatist,  he  who  strives 
t:-day  to  picture  life  in  terms  of  modern 
society  may  (comparing  small  things  with 


Idea  In  Drama  241 

great)  achieve  the  same  result:  remain  the 
artist  in  his  unpartizan  joy  in  studying  man 
kind  as  it  is,  and  yet,  by  indirection,  teach 
and  preach;  necessary  to  which,  now  as 
always,  is  an  idea  underneath  the  exhibition 
of  life,  and  a  conviction  concerning  the  ways 
of  God  with  men.  Success  in  dramatic 
writing  that  is  to  be  more  than  ephemeral 
and  negligible,  must  rest  upon  such  a  foun 
dation  as  this;  along  with  the  indispensable 
skill  in  handling  the  form  there  must  be 
that  sympathy  in  life  which  flowers  in  some 
proof  that  the  playmaker  has  really  been 
living,  and  therefore  has  something  to  say 
about  the  great,  confusing,  inspiring  life 
play  from  which  he  makes  his  own  little 
drama. 

Important  as  the  immediate  popular  re 
sponse  to  a  drama  may  be,  the  critic  must 
be  a  little  chary  of  pronouncing  failure  or 
success  upon  this  ground  alone.  What  in 
deed  is  meant  by  "success"  in  the  drama  and 
what  sort  of  play  in  America  to-day  secures 
it?  The  obvious  reply  is  to  say  that  a  play 


242         The  New  American  Drama 

that,  within  a  brief  time,  attracts  a  sufficient 
number  of  persons  to  meet  expenses  and 
leave  a  margin  of  reasonable  profit  is  suc 
cessful.  But  the  conditions  of  this  com 
mercial  success  are  not  so  plain  as  might 
appear.  Within  a  week  of  the  New  York 
premiere  of  the  piece  its  fate  is,  as  a  rule, 
decided.  The  assumption  in  such  a  case  is 
that  the  audience  which  thus  makes  or  mars 
a  drama  is  typical  as  representing  audiences 
everywhere  in  the  country;  along  with  an 
other  assumption :  that  the  drama  has  been 
properly  staged,  rehearsed  and  acted,  and 
that  the  situation  in  the  theatre  world  at  the 
time  of  its  production  is  sufficiently  normal 
to  give  the  play  a  fair  chance  to  declare  its 
merit.  Yet  none  or  not  all  of  these  condi 
tions  may  be  present.  The  drama  may  be 
miscast  and  its  meaning  so  obscured  as  ma 
terially  to  affect  its  welfare.  This  happens 
so  commonly  as  to  be  very  familiar.  Or, 
an  excellent  drama  may  deal  with  an  aspect 
of  life  or  a  phase  of  character  which  happens 
to  have  been  exploited  already  in  New  York 


Idea  in  Drama  243 

and  so  comes  as  a  repetition;  yet  contains 
an  appeal  which  would  make  it  welcome 
throughout  the  country  when  it  goes  on  its 
travels. 

Or  once  more,  the  stage  management  of 
the  new  play  might  be  so  stupidly  unaware  of 
its  intention  as  largely  to  hide  what  it  really 
is  and  wishes  to  do.  We  know  how  much 
color  scheme  and  stage  grouping  and  wrong 
emphasis  are  to  be  reckoned  with  in  the  life 
of  a  play;  and  veteran  theatre-goers  have 
seen  disaster  wait  upon  their  neglect. 

Also  it  is  quite  possible  that  there  may 
be  other  local  reasons  why  the  drama  in 
question  should  not  flourish  at  the  moment 
of  its  appearance.  Financial  gloom,  excep 
tional  weather,  the  hot  season,  counter  at 
tractions  like  Christmas,  and  half  a  dozen 
like  interferences  can  be  at  once  conjured 
up;  all  of  them  contributory  to,  if  not  de 
cisive  of,  the  drama's  fate.  Then,  too,  the 
play  when  it  is  first  seen  may  be  of  sub 
stantial  merit,  which  is  lost  sight  of  in  easily 
remedied  mistakes,  the  malaises  that  even 


244         The  New  American  Drama 

the  experienced  dramatist  finds  himself  sub 
ject  to.  By  alterations  rapidly  made  during 
the  early  life  of  the  play  the  drama  can 
be  made  right,  but  more  than  a  few  nights, 
or  a  week's  time,  may  be  needed  to  discover 
what  is  wrong.  Often,  a  play  failing  in  the 
metropolis,  has  been  rectified  later  when  it 
has  been  done  in  the  provinces  and  so 
brought  to  a  satisfactory  and  successful 
state.  Mr.  Walter's  "Fine  Feathers"  is  an 
illustration  of  the  statement. 

It  is  also  true  that  there  is  now  a  par 
ticular  kind  of  audience  awaiting  a  certain 
kind  of  play,  yet  the  audience  does  not  re 
ceive  the  news  in  time  to  rally  to  its  support. 
Mr.  Kenyon's  "Kindling"  would  not  have 
survived  its  very  cool  first  reception  in 
New  York  City  had  it  not  been  for  the 
vigorous  concerted  efforts  of  a  few  well- 
wishers  of  sound  drama,  critics  and  literary 
folk,  who  managed  to  tide  that  fine  play 
over  its  unsuccessful  beginning.  The  re 
markably  cordial  reception  awarded  to 
Brieux's  vital  though  sombre  drama  "Dam- 


Idea  in  Drama  245 

aged  Goods,"  in  the  spring  of  1913,  in  New 
York,  is  an  apt  illustration  of  the  statement 
that  special  audiences  for  the  sort  of  play 
that  does  not  appeal  to  the  conventional 
flock  of  theatre-goers  are  already  in  ex 
istence,  so  that  it  should  be  part  of  a  wise 
managerial  policy  to  find  and  feed  them. 
And  this  suggests  the  larger  thought  that 
the  assumption  that  in  a  given  New  York 
theatre  on  a  certain  day  the  audience  fairly 
represents  the  reception  the  drama  is  likely 
to  get  anywhere  and  under  all  conditions, 
is  unwarranted.  The  first  night  metropolitan 
audience  may  be  critical,  it  is  certainly  more 
blase  than  those  who  are  to  follow,  and 
those  following  nights  are  crucial  in  the 
play's  career.  The  theatre  auditors  are  then 
made  up  of  a  shifting  number  of  idlers,  vis 
itors  from  all  parts  of  the  land  and  repre 
senting  all  degrees  and  grades  of  intelligence, 
culture  and  physical  condition, — this  last  a 
homely  but  important  consideration.  The 
advocates  of  the  doctrine  of  the  drama's 
democracy  will  promptly  remind  me  that 


246          The  New  American  Drama 

this  mixed  nature  of  the  audience  is  just 
the  desideratum  for  the  kind  of  judgment 
we  should  desire;  but,  to  my  mind,  this  is 
pushing  the  vox  populi  doctrine  to  an  absurd 
extreme.  The  audience  under  such  condi 
tions  is  far  from  an  ideal  one  to  settle  the 
fate  of  a  piece  of  dramatic  literature,  or  that 
of  a  good  stage  story.  It  should  not  be 
allowed  to  pass  final  sentence  upon  a  work 
of  art  in  the  theatre.  Largely,  it  consists 
of  ignorant  itinerants  who  are  no  more  New 
Yorkers  than  they  are  Athenians.  It  is  well 
known  that  there  is  now  a  distinct  reaction 
against  the  tyranny  of  a  New  York  verdict 
of  this  unsatisfactory  sort,  and  it  is  coming 
to  be  realized  that  a  dozen  large  cities  in 
the  United  States  may  properly  be  heard 
from  before  it  is  blandly  decided  that  a  play 
is  good  or  bad.  The  American  drama  as  it 
heroically  struggles  into  excellence  is  at  pres 
ent  suffering  from  what  might  be  called  the 
department  store  methods  of  production  that 
obtain  with  some  of  the  most  influential  man 
agers.  There  is  a  tendency  to  produce  plays 


Idea  in  Drama  247 


by  wholesale,  so  that  the  theatrical  business 
becomes  a  sort  of  gambling  game.  The  man 
ager  puts  a  large  number  of  dramas  before 
the  public,  dramas  supposedly  of  different 
types,  in  order  that  one  or  two  out  of  a 
dozen  may  secure  a  hearing  and  recoup  the 
producer  for  his  remaining  failures.  The 
same  method  has  become  very  familiar  to 
us  in  the  field  of  popular  fiction.  The  result 
is,  that  the  individual  play  is  not  given  the 
attention  it  calls  for  to  bring  out  its  par 
ticular  excellencies  (which  it  may  be  assumed 
it  has,  else  why  produce  it  at  all?)  but  is 
fairly  slung  on  the  stage  to  fill  a  gap,  or 
prevent  a  house  from  going  dark;  and  as 
hastily  taken  off  before  the  test  has  been 
given  it.  And  all  the  blame  of  this  absurd, 
uneconomic  waste  of  promising  material  is 
promptly  put  upon  the  drama  itself,  instead 
of  where  it  belongs:  squarely  upon  the  man 
agers  themselves. 

How  utterly  unfair,  not  to  say  ridiculous, 
in  the  light  of  these  facts  and  notwithstand 
ing  them,  that  a  drama  should  within  a  week 


248          The  New  American  Drama 

be  pronounced  a  failure  and  go  to  the  coun 
try  (if  it  have  courage  to  try  further)  with 
that  stigma  upon  it,  under  the  necessity  of 
living  down  an  evil  reputation,  perhaps  en 
tirely  undeserved! 

In  view  of  all  this,  the  critic  in  the  seats 
or  elsewhere  should  be  slow  to  decide  that 
because  a  play  has  been  withdrawn  it  is 
necessarily  bad  drama;  or  be  sure  that 
under  fairer  and  more  enlightened  condi 
tions  the  present  failure  may  not  prove  the 
future  success.  And  it  may  be  set  down  as 
reasonable  in  casting  the  drama's  horoscope 
in  this  country,  to  expect  plays  to  succeed  in 
both  the  commercial  and  critical  sense  in 
proportion  as  they  boldly  embody  in  their 
work  a  criticism  of  life. 

Although  the  phrase  as  applied  to  poetry 
by  Matthew  Arnold  may  be  unsatisfactory, 
— who,  for  that  matter,  has  defined  poetry 
for  general  critical  acceptance? — it  is  hap 
pily  descriptive  of  what  a  play  should  con 
tain  as  a  centre  from  which  to  radiate  as  a 
living  organism.  A  play  without  an  opinion 


Idea  in  Drama  249 


of  life  beneath  it  is  a  flabby  invertebrate. 
The  "criticism"  is  not  a  matter  of  the  in 
tellect  primarily  nor  is  formal  philosophy 
involved;  it  is  rather  the  sum  total  of  what 
the  writer  has  learned  in  the  homely  busi 
ness  of  daily  living.  But  just  as  truly — all 
the  more  truly  for  this  reason,  indeed — it 
represents  his  faith,  his  conviction,  his  hope, 
fear,  guess,  aspiration,  mirrored  in  the  aspect 
of  life  he  is  depicting.  Arnold  used  the 
word  "criticism"  in  this  sense;  and  retaining 
that  meaning  and  applying  it  to  drama,  it 
may  be  said  that  the  rational  pleasure  in  any 
piece  of  work  that  gets  a  hearing  in  the  play 
house  is  in  ratio  to  the  idea  it  contains,  the 
criticism  of  life  it  offers,  the  oneness  of  pur 
pose  in  steadily  revealing  it,  and  the  skill 
with  which  this  is  made  manifest.  And  it 
is  my  opinion  that  a  close  watch  upon  the 
drama  now  being  written  by  the  dramatists 
recently  arrived  or  arriving,  will  show  that 
nothing  distinguishes  them  more  clearly 
from  their  elders  than  the  way  in  which, 
with  firmer  technic  and  a  more  positive 


250         The  New  American  Drama 

native  note,  they  are  gaining  in  vitality  and 
verity  through  a  reliance  upon  that  interest 
in  life  which  is  the  common  instinct  and  in 
heritance  of  all  who  live. 


XI 

THE  THEATRE  AND  EDUCATION 

EDUCATION,  broadly  viewed,  might  be  de 
fined  as  such  drawing  out  of  the  powers 
of  a  human  being  as  shall  bring  him  into 
harmony  with  his  environment.  To  realize 
one's  self  in  relation  to  the  world,  both  within 
and  without,  that,  I  take  it,  is  education 
stripped  of  all  its  frills  and  furbelows.  Any 
thing  that  reveals  one's  potentialities,  and 
then  teaches  one  to  use  those  powers  with  a 
clear  perception  of  what  life  is,  is  educative 
in  the  deepest  sense. 

The  self-conscious  life  of  a  human  being 
is  two-thirds  emotional;  the  remark  is 
Matthew  Arnold's,  but  observation  cor 
roborates  the  statement.  It  is  not  true  because 
he  said  it — he  said  it  because  it  is  true. 
Hence,  any  medium  of  education  which  takes 
advantage  of  this  psychic  fact,  becomes  at 

251 


252          The  New  American  Drama 

once  more  influential  as  an  educational 
means.  ^ 

The  theatre  is  such  a  means;  (jt  is  a  place 
where  a  large  number  of  persons  may  see 
a  piece  of  life,  have  it  brought  home  to  them 
directly,  warmly,  in  terms  of  the  emotions, 
rather  than  by  head-work;  so  that  the  great 
lessons  of  life  are  instilled  as  naturally  as 
in  that  first  schooft  (prototype  of  all  the  rest), 
when  the  child  at  the  mother's  knee  learns 
the  deep  lessons  of  living. 

The  theatre  indeed  would  have  some  edu 
cational  worth  if  it  taught  only  the  more 
external  things,  like  speech  and  deportment. 
The  Germans  show  their  sense  of  the  use 
fulness  of  the  stage  in  the  matter  of  offering 
a  model  of  speech  by  the  word  buhnen- 
sprache;  they  concede  that  proper  pronunci 
ation,  intonation,  general  elegance  of  utter 
ance  may  thus  be  instilled. 

In  the  playhouse,  the  auditorium  dark 
ened  to  shut  out  the  workaday  world,  we 
watch  the  acts,  think  the  thoughts,  and(re- 
soond  sympathetically  to  the  feelings  of  men 


The  Theatre  and  Education         253 

and  women  undergoing  experiences  like  our 
own,^)or  coveted  by  us;  we  are  impression 
able  children  drinking  in  the  wonder  of  the 
world.  And  think  for  a  moment  of  the  vast- 
ness  of  such  a  people's  school!  By  a  most 
conservative  estimate,  millions  of  folk  weekly 
attend  theatres  in  this  country,  exclusive  of 
motion  picture  shows.  Surely,  here  is  a 
great  natural  school,  unsurpassed  in  power 
and  opportunity! 

Nor  should  it  be  overlooked  that  the  fact 
that  these  lessons  come  in  the  guise  of  amuse 
ment,  so  far  from  making  them  less  educa 
tive,  actually  adds  to  their  powerjfsince  man 
kind,  for  the  very  reason  that  it  is  unaware 
of  being  influenced,  is  all  the  more  plastic 
to  impressions,)  mo  re  subject  to  this  mighty 

* 

influence.") 

Another  element  in  the  power  of  the  the 
atre  lies  in  its  being  a  social  experience  and 
expression.  The  lesson  is  the  more  potent 
in  that  it  is  common  to  a  large  number  of 
human  beings  together;  the  now  familiar 
mob  psychology  being  present  to  give  the 


254         The  New  American  Drama 

individual  emotions  overtones,  so  to  say,  to 
fortify  the  strength  of  the  impression  and 
multiply  its  effects. 

The  first  point,  therefore,  in  any  fruitful 
consideration  of  the  matter,  is  to  realize  this 
impressive  influence  of  the  playhouse  in  the 
common  social  life;  and  next,  to  separate 
such  potential  power  for  good  from  all  its 
abuse,  while  frankly  conceding  such  mis 
handling  of  the  theatre;  and  finally  to  ask 
ourselves  if  anything  can  be  done  about  it. 
Is  this  a  practical  matter  of  some  import  to 
good  citizens  everywhere?  Is  the  theatre  at 
present  often  a  menace  to  society,  and  can  it 
become  one  of  the  most  formidable  weapons 
in  the  right  hands  for  the  betterment  of  the 
state?  And  if  so,  have  educators  a  vital  re 
lation  to  the  matter,  and  what  can  they  and 
should  they  do  in  the  premises? 

Public  opinion  has  sufficiently  developed 
to  make  such  questions  no  longer  erratic, 
as  a  few  years  ago  they  might  have  been 
considered.  As  we  have  seen,  so  much  is 
now  happening  in  the  way  of  recognition  of 


The  Theatre  and  Education         255 

the  theatre,  that  even  the  callous-minded 
must  feel  the  push  of  the  general  interest. 

On  all  sides,  nowadays,  the  better  elements 
of  the  community  are  tardily  awakening  to 
the  significance  of  this  social  factor,  the  the 
atre.  The  old-time  narrow  and  foolish  con 
ception  of  it  as  a  gateway  to  hell  is  rapidly 
passing  into  the  limbo  of  dead  ideas.  Here 
and  there  still,  to  be  sure,  the  notion  that 
there  is  something  intrinsically  evil  in  the 
playhouse  makes  itself  heard;  but  emphat 
ically  it  does  not  represent  the  best  thought 
of  the  time.  The  typical  broad-minded  per 
son,  whom  one  likes  to  call  modern,  is  com 
ing  to  feel  that  the  theatre,  because  of  its 
direct  influence  upon  the  masses,  is  very  much 
his  business,  especially  in  its  relation  to  the 
young  and  to  women.  The  majority  of  all 
theatre-goers  are  young,  and  if  statistics  re 
cently  gathered  in  New  York  can  be  trusted, 
eighty  per  cent,  of  them  are  women — the 
future  mothers  and  home-makers  of  the  land. 

This  same  modern  person  is  aware  (else 
were  he  not  modern)  that  the  future  of  the 


256          The  New  American  Drama 

state,  its  welfare  in  all  that  makes  for  civili 
zation,  lies  with  the  children,  with  the  young 
who  swarm  in  its  houses  and  seek  amuse 
ment  in  its  streets,  or  over  its  wide  spaces 
of  countryside.  And  he  knows  that  if  we 
pay  no  attention  to  the  sort  of  pabulum  we 
offer  this  vast  throng  which,  millions  strong 
a  week,  turns  for  pleasure,  rest,  refreshment 
and  romance,  to  the  playhouse,  then  much 
that  is  so  offered  will  be  not  helpful  but 
vicious,  undoing  all  the  good  effects  of  home, 
school,  library  and  church;  so  that  to  see 
that  our  playhouses  do  good  rather  than 
harm  is  beginning  to  be  recognized  as  a 
civic  and  social  aim  quite  as  practical  and 
important  as  the  question  of  the  referendum 
or  recall;  perhaps  even  more  important. 
Think  of  the  purblind  indifference  to  the 
social  welfare  implied  in  the  license  granted 
for  so  many  years  to  the  managers  of  the 
atrical  companies  in  the  matter  of  the  bill 
boards  which  so  often  flaunt  pictorial  and 
verbal  indecency  in  the  face  of  youth  as  it 
troops  to  and  from  school.  We  pay  great 


The  Theatre  and  Education 


sums  to  maintain  the  schools,  and  then,  by  suf 
fering  those  lewd  advertisements,  largely  nul 
lify  the  educational  work  to  which  so  much 
time,  labor  and  money  are  dedicated.  Highly 
uneconomic,  this,  and,  in  truth,  an  ironic 
spectacle! 

The  best  element  in  the  community  can 
not  long  set  aside  as  not  its  business  that 
sequence  of  social  cause  and  effect  which 
begins  with  the  working  girl's  unlivable 
wage,  has  for  its  middle  term  the  sensualistic 
and  provocative  show,  is  followed  by  the 
dance  hall,  private  drinking  room  and 
brothel;  and  has  for  end  of  this  "strange 
eventful  history,"  that  which  is  far  more 
terrible  than  the  Shaksperean  "mere  ob 
livion."  I  know  of  no  more  astonishing 
spectacle  in  our  boasted  latter-day  life  than 
the  attitude  which  up  to  the  last  years  ob 
tained  toward  the  theatre;  the  failure  to  see 
its  significance,  its  menace,  its  glorious  possi 
bilities  for  popular  instruction,  —  not  in  the 
dry  pedagogic  sense,  but  in  the  genial,  lib 
eral  meaning  of  the  word:  instruction  in  the 


258         The  New  'American  Drama 

facts  of  human  psychology  and  the  mysteries 
of  the  human  spirit,  so  that  we  may  be  forti 
fied  by  truth  and  uplifted  by  ideals;  instruc 
tion,  too,  through  that  enlargement  of  the 
whole  nature  which  comes  from  a  sympa 
thetic  comprehension  of  the  big  world  lying 
beyond  the  petty  boundaries  of  individual 
experience. 

And  now  to  name  certain  obvious  duties. 
In  the  first  place,  not  as  teachers,  but  merely 
as  human  beings,  we  can  insist  on  an  intelli 
gent  use  of  the  theatre  for  ourselves  and 
suggest  it  to  others.  For  ourselves,  by  choos 
ing  entertainment  that  has  some  artistic 
value,  some  stimulation  as  literature,  some 
significance  as  an  interpretation  of  life; 
ascertaining  this  through  the  best  criticism, 
by  a  preparatory  reading  of  plays  (now  so 
widely  published),  and  by  class  or  club 
study  of  dramatic  literature.  Then  we  shall 
be  ready  for  the  good  drama  when  it  comes, 
and  quick  to  separate  it  from  the  negligible  or 
worse. 

Then  as  parents,  or  those  having  in  any 


The  Theatre  and  Education         259 

way  the  care  and  direction  of  the  young,  we 
can,  both  by  precept  and  example,  guide 
them  in  their  choice,  using  persuasion  rather 
than  compulsion;  nor  hesitating  for  a  moment 
to  point  out  the  world-wide  difference  be 
tween  a  serious  thought-compelling  drama 
like  "The  Easiest  Way,"  or  a  beautiful 
drama  of  dream  and  ideal  like  "The  Blue 
Bird,"  on  the  one  hand,  and,  on  the  other, 
the  sensualities  and  sillinesses  of  comic  opera 
and  the  too  frequent  vulgarities  of  vaude 
ville.  Too  many  parents  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  exhibiting  the  same  carelessness  as 
to  the  theatre-going  of  their  young,  that  they 
have  shown  in  the  matter  of  their  reading. 
In  all  our  larger  cities,  the  spectacle  is 
common  of  matinee  box  parties  made  up  of 
young  folk  from  the  best  homes,  to  witness 
some  vulgar  travesty  of  life  instead  of  a  real 
play,  or  placidly  to  imbibe  the  morals  of 
the  gutter  from  knock-about  comedians  whose 
only  natural  home  is  the  circus  ring  or  the 
bagnio. 
The  writer  (if  he  may  be  allowed  per- 


260          The  New  American  Drama 

sonal  testimony)  has  for  years  been  closely 
in  touch  with  the  Drama  Club  of  his  own 
university,  which  has  allowed  him  to  have 
a  hand  in  the  choice  of  plays  and  he  has 
tried  to  show  all  concerned  the  service  such 
an  organization  can  perform,  not  only  to  the 
actors  themselves,  but  to  the  college  commu 
nity,  and  to  the  local  town  public,  if  only  the 
representative  drama  of  the  world  be  per 
formed.  Far  better  good  plays  earnestly  and 
intelligently  rendered — albeit  lacking  the 
professional  touch — rather  than  meaningless 
plays  in  the  hands  of  professional  masters. 
'And  I  take  pride  in  saying  that  for  ten  years 
nothing  but  drama  of  worth  and  significance 
has  been  presented;  including  the  works  of 
Shakspere,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Ibsen, 
Shaw,  Holberg,  Coppee,  Jones  and  Pinero. 

And  coming  more  explicitly  to  teachers,  it 
is  my  sincere  conviction  that  the  school,  as 
well  as  college,  can  do  much  in  teaching 
their  students  about  the  theatre;  and  in  sev 
eral  ways.  First,  in  helping  and  encouraging 
the  Drama  Club  in  educational  institutions, 


The   Theatre  and  Education          261 

making  it  an  integral  part  of  the  work  to 
receive  regular  college  credit,  and  a  dignified 
phase  of  English  study,  fostered  and  espe 
cially  furthered  by  the  English  department. 

Again,  by  offering  classes  for  the  purpose 
of  teaching  the  literary  history  of  the  drama, 
so  that  the  pupil  may  learn  to  respect  the 
stage  in  that  way;  classes  in  the  laws  of  its 
technic,  so  that  he  may  respect  the  play  as 
a  work  of  art;  and  classes  in  its  social  history, 
so  that  the  student  learning,  for  instance,  that 
an  enlightened  land  like  France  appropriates 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars  annually  to 
maintain  four  theatres,  will  have  it  borne  in 
on  his  consciousness  that  in  the  opinion  of 
mankind  the  playhouse  bears  an  important 
relation  to  the  state. 

And  once  more,  by  practical  guidance  in 
theatre  attendance.  There  is  no  reason  in  the 
world  why  the  teacher  should  not  offer  con 
tinual  advice  on  the  relative  values  of  current 
drama,  with  the  practical  result  of  influen 
cing  the  theatre  habit  of  students.  The  use 
and  abuse  of  the  playhouse  can  in  this  in- 


262         The  New  American  Drama 

formal  manner,  as  friend  to  friends,  be  plain 
ly  indicated. 

In  these  three  ways,  at  least,  both  school 
and  college  can  throw  the  weight  of  their 
influence  toward  a  better  comprehension  of 
the  theatre.  It  may  be  added  that  we  shall 
soon  have  simple,  sensible  text-books  on  this 
subject,  even  as  we  now  have  text-books  on 
chemistry,  history  or  law.  The  recent  ad 
mirable  work  on  "Playmaking"  by  William 
Archer,  the  earlier  book  on  "The  Theory 
of  the  Theatre,"  by  Clayton  Hamilton,  Mr. 
Price's  elaborate  study,  "Analysis  of  Play 
Construction,"  the  sterling  books  by  Bran- 
der  Matthews  and  later  to  appear,  that  on 
"The  Play  of  To-day,"  by  Miss  Hunt,  and 
"The  Civic  Theatre,"  by  Mr.  Mackaye,  are 
but  forerunners  of  more  rudimentary  man 
uals  which  will  help  the  pupil  to  appreciate 
the  play  and  make  it  naturally  a  part  of  his 
studies.  Indeed,  a  manual  has  already  ap 
peared  under  the  direction  of  the  Drama 
League  of  America,  aimed  to  offer  a  course 
of  dramatic  study  for  the  High  School. 


The  Theatre  and  Education         263 

The  recent  book  entitled  "Educational  Dra 
matics,"  designed  for  teachers,  club  leaders 
and  amateurs,  is  also  an  indication  of  the 
change.  It  will  be  realized  more  and  more 
that  it  is  part  of  the  business  of  teachers  to 
prepare  the  intelligent  theatre-goer  and  ama 
teur  critic  of  the  future.  So  much  they 
should  do,  while  awaiting  the  day  of  general 
recognition  of  the  theatre  by  municipality 
and  state;  or  better,  its  general  recognition 
by  society.  The  educational  significance  of 
the  pageant  movement  here  and  abroad  need 
only  to  be  referred  to,  in  order  that  the 
reader  may  realize  what  a  promising  and  as 
yet  little  used  factor  is  here.  History  visual 
ized,  emotionalized,  made  dramatic,  what  a 
power  for  popular  instruction,  when  once  it 
is  widely  utilized!  The  pioneer  work  in 
this  field  done  in  the  United  States  by  a  prac 
tical  worker  like  Mr.  Mackaye  will  be 
appreciated  the  more  as  time  passes.  The 
connection  of  childhood,  too,  with  the  move 
ment  in  the  playground  work — the  reopening 
of  the  Children's  Educational  Theatre  in  New 


264         The  New  American  Drama 

York,  and  the  Shakspere  Festival  of  public 
school  children  in  Chicago,  already  referred 
to,  are  pertinent  examples — suggest  the  rich 
possibilities  of  utilizing  the  play  in  pageant 
and  playhouse  work.  In  witnessing  the  Cali 
fornia  Mission  Play,  I  felt  that  that  state 
would  be  wise  to  present  tickets  of  admission 
to  such  a  play  to  all  its  school  children,  as  an 
induction  into  good  citizenship. 

And  all  this  can  be  accomplished  better 
than  ever  before,  because  we  have  the  en 
couragement  of  a  quickened  interest  and  a 
new  birth  of  the  literary  drama,  beyond  all 
cavil  the  most  marked  tendency  in  modern 
literature  during  the  past  ten  years.  We  are 
sustained  by  a  generally  aroused  perception 
that  a  power  so  potent  for  good  has  been 
largely  wasted, — or  worse,  allowed  to  run  into 
channels  inimical  to  national  health. 

Such  a  power  the  theatre  is,  for  good  or 
evil;  until  now,  often  evil  in  effect  and  in 
fluence,  and  it  is  for  the  people,  realizing 
this  at  last,  to  control  it  for  the  noble  pur 
pose  of  making  it  the  beneficent  institution 


The  Theatre  and  Education         26$ 

which  it  became  in  its  highest  estate  in 
Greece,  and  again  in  the  Elizabethan  period 
of  England,  an  influence  also  potent  and 
flourishing  in  the  elder  days  of  Spain;  and 
in  several  European  lands  just  as  truly  pow 
erful  in  the  new  efflorescence  to-day.  It  has 
been,  and  always  can  be,  the  repository  of 
the  noblest  literature,  a  temple  of  inspira 
tional  life,  a  school  for  all  the  virtues.  And 
because  it  can  be,  no  consideration  of  private 
business  should  prevent  us  as  individuals, 
working  in  groups  or  through  our  chosen 
representatives,  from  insisting  that  this 
mighty  instrument  of  good  shall  perform  the 
service  delegated  to  it  when  it  was  born  in 
the  bosom  of  Mother  Church  and  for  cen 
turies  thereafter  did  not  forget  that  its  rea- 
son-for-being  (back  of  its  function  of  amuse 
ment)  was  to  minister  to  the  highest  good 
of  toil-worn  mankind.  The  better  estate  of 
the  theatre  beginning  to  take  shape  before 
our  eyes,  is  no  Utopian  dream,  but  a  return 
to  conditions  which  have  existed  in  the  past, 
with  all  the  advantages  accruing  to  it — and 


266          The  New  American  Drama 

they  are  many — from  the  mechanical  and 
other  boons  of  modern  development  in  the 
playhouse. 

No  longer  can  we  undervalue  that  min 
istry,  and  refuse  to  do  justice  to  the  great 
moments  afforded  us  by  the  theatre;  as  where, 
in  "Lear,"  the  broken  king,  distraught  and 
dazed,  cries  out  to  his  one  faithful  daughter, 
as  a  sense  of  her  identity  breaks  through  his 
cloudy  mind: 

"  Do  not  laugh  at  me; 
For,  as  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child,  Cordelia." 

Or  when,  in  Goethe's  "Faust,"  Marguerite 
in  prison,  dazed  by  her  dream  of  disaster, 
wails  forth  those  words  so  expressive  of  her 
sense  of  life's  mystery: 

"  Yet  everything  that  brought  me  here 
Was  O  so  good,  and  O  so  dear ! ' ' 

Or  when  Beatrice  Cenci  in  Shelley's  play, 
about  to  die  on  the  scaffold,  talks  with  her 
mother  in  that  vein  of  elemental  simplicity 
natural  to  a  noble  character  in  a  great  moment 
of  fate : 


The   Theatre  and  Education          267 

"  Here,  mother, 

Tie  my  girdle  for  me,  and  bind  up  this  hair 
In  any  simple  knot;  ay,  that  does  well. 
And  yours  I  see  is  coming  down.      How  often 
Have  we  done  this  for  one  another;  now 
We  shall  not  do  it  any  more.      My  Lord, 
We  are  quite  ready.     Well — 'tis  very  well." 

Or  when,  again,  the  drain-man  in  Ken 
nedy's  "Servant  in  the  House,"  replies  to  the 
weak  moan  of  the  clergyman,  who  declares 
that  he  is  nothing,  "less  than  nothing  in  all 
this  living  world": 

"By  God,  but  I  call  myself  summat!  I'm 
the  drain-man,  that's  wot  I  am,"  a  splendid 
affirmation  of  the  dignity  of  labor. 

Or  once  more,  when  Peter  Pan  in  Barrie's 
ever-delightful  play,  steps  forward  to  the 
footlights  and  makes  that  blithe  appeal  to 
the  faith  of  us  all  in  the  Never,  Never  Land, 
and  the  instant  response  comes,  often  borne 
upon  the  sweet  treble  of  children's  voices; 
an  assertion  of  the  might  of  the  imagination 
in  this  world,  turning  it  from  mud  color  to 
golden,  and  forming,  indeed,  the  most  neces 
sary  aid  to  living  in  the  full  category  of 
heaven's  gifts  to  man. 


268          The  New  American  Drama 

These,  and  such  as  these,  are  great  moments 
in  the  theatre  and  the  men  who  make  them 
possible  for  us  are  not  surpassed,  it  seems  to 
me,  in  the  service  they  perform  for  the  com 
munity  and  the  state.  These  are  the  moments 
of  our  associated  life  when  civilization  ap 
pears  more  than  a  name;  and  confronted  by 
them,  knowing  that  the  playhouse  can  do  us 
this  service,  the  exquisite  absurdity  of  calling 
such  experience  a  "show"  and  nothing  more, 
becomes,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  sufficiently  ap 
parent. 

O  that  gift  of  the  imagination!  It  is  well 
that  Mr.  Faversham  gives  it  the  place  of 
honor  in  his  profession  in  recent  addresses 
before  university  audiences;  that  Richard 
Mansfield  made  an  impassioned  plea  for 
poetry  in  the  playhouse.  For  it  is  the  fac 
ulty  of  man  whereby  he  reaches  and  recog 
nizes  the  higher  truth  of  life:  the  truth  that 
is  in  dreams,  aspirations,  ideals.  After  all, 
life  for  every  one  of  us  is  far  more  a  state 
of  mind  than  an  external  fact.  No  apology  is 
offered  for  the  tone  of  frank  didacticism  in 


The  Theatre  and  Education         269 

which  the  argument  is  presented.  It  is  pref 
erable,  let  us  hope,  to  the  note  of  light  cyn 
icism  with  which  the  subject  is  frequently 
treated;  it  is  better  to  be  "elementary"  than 
to  obscure  and  distort  a  good  cause  by  an 
attempt  at  flippant  and  shallow  cleverness. 

At  present,  the  theatre  is  very  much  like 
life  itself;  the  two  plays  "Everyman"  and 
"Everywoman"  (perhaps  better  named  "Any- 
man"  and  "Anywoman")  offer  titular  sym 
bols  of  its  scope  in  that  they  faithfully 
reproduce  the  light  and  shade,  the  good  and 
evil,  of  the  human  case.  Any  such  represen 
tation  which  is  broad  and  fair,  which  tells 
the  truth  concerning  man  in  both  his  high 
and  low  estate,  is  salutary,  if  only  the  proper 
emphasis  be  thrown  upon  the  respective  parts 
of  the  picture.  Therefore,  while  making  a 
stern  demand  upon  the  theatre  as  to  its  in 
fluence,  we  must  allow  it  a  reasonable  liberty, 
for  fear  that  otherwise  we  may  choke  its 
strength,  and  cramp  its.  service.  In  demand 
ing  morality,  we  must  interpret  the  word 
in  a  generous  way,  not  forgetting  Bernard 


270         The  New  Ameri-can  Drama 

Shaw's  piercing  remark,  to  the  effect  that 
people  are  always  "confusing  the  shock  of 
surprise  with  the  genuine  ethical  shock." 

In  other  words,  to  a  certain  type  of  mind, 
set  in  habit  and  adjusted  to  conventions 
which  are  as  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and 
Persians,  anything  out  of  the  ordinary  and 
contrary  to  custom,  is  a  matter  of  offence. 
We  cannot  afford  to  let  that  sort  of  man- 
milliner  dictate  in  this  matter  of  the  play 
house.  He  is  as  dangerous  to  its  welfare  as 
is  the  common  commercial  manager.  Ap 
ply  the  principle  to  all  art,  and  Shakspere, 
Dante,  Homer,  Michael  Angelo,  Goethe, 
Rodin,  Heine,  Mark  Twain,  Beethoven, 
Wagner,  Whitman,  and  as  many  more,  would 
be  eliminated  at  one  fell  swoop,  for  their 
kind  always  sees  life  too  broadly  and  feels 
it  too  deeply  not  to  speak  out  plain,  albeit 
cleanly,  and  to  show  all  of  it  that  is  necessary 
to  reveal  its  meaning  and  message.  Life  is 
not  a  pretty  child  to  be  exhibited  only  in 
esthetic  clothes  and  cosseted  because  so  frail; 
but  rather,  a  grown-up  sturdy  creature, 


The  Theatre  and  Education         271 

rough  at  times,  even  rank  in  certain  moods, 
but  nevertheless  hale,  sweet-breathed,  clear- 
eyed,  having  something  in  its  sweeping  ges 
ture  and  show  of  virile  power  which  suggests 
a  great  ancestry  and  a  greater  destiny. 

And  above  all,  must  we  hang  on  to  the 
idea  that  the  theatre  is  our  creature,  the  pub 
lic's;  we  made  it,  we  keep  it  alive,  we  can 
control  it,  if  so  we  will.  Let  us  cherish  a 
sensible  ideal  to  give  the  people  good  drama 
at  a  people's  price,  rather  than  at  a  price 
that  is  prohibitive  for  three-fourths  of  all 
potential  playgoers.  And  let  us  train  our 
selves  to  understand  it,  to  patronize  it  aright, 
to  relate  it  to  school  and  society,  in  place  of 
an  aloof  position  of  indifference  and  hyper- 
criticism,  with  its  blame  heavy  on  manager  or 
actor.  In  a  word,  let  us  seek  to  furnish  an 
intelligent  audience  and  thus  make  certain 
a  legitimate  drama  and  a  theatre  so  en 
lightened  that  it  shall  be  a  national  asset. 
Of  the  four  types  who  shape  the  fortune  of 
the  theatre,  the  playwright,  actor,  manager 
(the  actor-manager  takes  on  the  functions  of 


272          The  New  American  Drama 

the  other  two,  doubling  his  privilege  and  re 
sponsibility)  and  theatre-goer,  the  latter  has 
been  too  little  emphasized.  In  reality,  he  is 
the  keystone  of  the  arch.  The  others  are  but 
creatures  of  his  pleasure;  imperatively,  im 
periously,  does  he  beckon  and  they  follow. 
The  right  kind  of  an  audience  means  worthy 
drama.  It  is  well  for  the  theatre-goer  to 
become  conscious  of  this  power,  that  a  sense 
of  obligation  may  be  born  in  him  and,  in 
association  with  others,  he  may  take  his  part 
in  the  quartet  that  co-operatively  control  the 
fate  of  this  most  influential  of  public  amuse 
ments.  Far  beyond  the  confines  of  school 
and  college,  wherever  men  think  and  feel 
indeed,  should  there  be  an  education  in  what 
the  theatre  means  and  stands  for;  in  its  use 
as  distinguished  from  its  abuse;  in  its  high 
possibilities,  its  frequent  debasement,  its  oc 
casional  relation  to  art  and  letters,  a  relation 
which  might  be  made  constant.  And  if  the 
theatre-goer  do  his  share  in  this  eclaircisse- 
ment,  it  is  perfectly  safe  to  say  that  actor,  play 
wright,  and  manager  will  do  theirs;  they 


The  Theatre  and  Education         273 

being,  after  all,  but  servants  of  the  great  pub 
lic. 

Is  there  under  heaven  a  more  satiric  incon 
gruity  than  the  sight  of  a  person  bewailing 
the  lack  of  excellent  plays  when,  by  his  re 
fusal  to  attend  one  at  its  coming,  or  his  igno 
rance  of  the  presence  of  one  at  his  door,  he 
is  doing  all  in  his  power  to  perpetuate  the 
very  condition  of  things  he  bemoans?  Surely, 
before  that  spectacle,  one  can  hear  Meredith's 
"laughter  of  gods  in  the  background." 


THE   WORD   AFTER 

IT  should  appear  from  the  foregoing  pages 
that  pessimism  was  never  more  out  of  place 
in  thinking  of  the  drama  than  at  present. 
The  thoughtful  observer  can  frankly  confess 
that,  so  far  as  we  have  gone,  the  American 
product  and  performance  do  not  challenge 
the  British  work  of  such  dramatists  as  Pin- 
ero,  Jones,  Wilde,  Barrie,  Shaw,  Synge, 
Yeats,  Galsworthy,  Zangwill  and  half  a 
dozen  more.  Nor  is  he  unaware  of  the  fact 
that  a  superfluity  of  the  meretricious  is  still 
being  vended  under  the  practical  pressure 
which  is  the  result  of  the  overbuilding  of 
playhouses  and  the  speculative  methods  of 
the  day;  with  the  inevitable  sequel  of  the 
speedy  demise  of  the  great  majority  of 
dramas  now  manufactured. 

But  he  meets  these  irrefutable  statements 
cheerfully  and  with  head  up,  because  he  is 

275 


276         The  New  American  Drama 

aware  that  in  America  there  has  been  until 
lately  less  encouragement  to  our  literary  mak 
ers  to  turn  to  drama  as  a  serious  form  of 
expression  than  there  has  been  in  the  old 
country.  Also  he  consoles  himself  with  the 
reflection  that  in  any  year  of  grace  since 
drama  has  been  produced  in  English-speak 
ing  lands,  by  far  the  largest  percentage  of 
plays  has  steadily  perished ;  and  that  the  real 
test,  and  only  fair  one,  is  to  ask  and  answer 
the  question:  how  does  this  year  compare 
with  the  year  preceding?  With  a  lustrum 
ago,  a  decade,  a  quarter  century?  And  he 
knows  that  the  higher  interest  is  astir,  as 
never  before;  that  more  intelligent  activity 
has  begun;  that  the  well-wishers  of  the 
theatre  are  everywhere  fast  consolidating  for 
effective  work  of  many  kinds.  Seeing  this, 
he  can  afford  to  be  patient  when  the  veteran 
remark  is  vented  as  to  the  hopelessness  of 
things  dramatic,  accompanied  by  the  equally 
long-lived  comparison  with  those  hypothet 
ical  good  times  of  the  sacred  past.  For  he 
considers  not  only  our  recent  creditable  prog- 


The  Word  After 277 

ress  in  playmaking,  but  human  nature  as 
well;  and  so  accepts,  with  a  tolerant  smile, 
the  indifference  which  assumes  that  state  of 
mind  to  be  a  merit,  and  the  ignorance  that 
masks  as  omniscience. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  hf  'I  T  i  HI  r  niliirrt  ttr  immndiifp  recall. 


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